


Lost Cause

by Spectersticks



Category: Star Wars - All Media Types, Star Wars: The Clone Wars (2008) - All Media Types
Genre: Action, Battle, Gen, Infiltration, Military, Mission Fic, Questioning Beliefs, Sadness, Strategy & Tactics, Well it's 2020 and everything is sad, what can i say
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-12-26
Updated: 2021-03-02
Packaged: 2021-03-11 04:00:59
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 10
Words: 25,843
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28328655
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Spectersticks/pseuds/Spectersticks
Summary: The final months of the Outer Rim Sieges bring full-scale invasion upon the frozen planet Desevro. Teetering at the breakpoint to destroy the Confederacy’s final hold on the galaxy, the Jedi vie to eliminate Separatist resources from a hidden facility beneath the planet’s surface. This is the story of two nameless men, cast out from the structure that every clone knows, and their journey to discover purpose beyond their prescribed roles.
Relationships: CC-2224 | Cody & Obi-Wan Kenobi, CC-2224 | Cody & Original Clone Trooper Character(s), Original Clone Trooper Character(s) & Original Clone Trooper Character(s)
Comments: 21
Kudos: 13





	1. Chapter 1

The Outer Rim Sieges had at last befallen the final bastion of Separatist space. Densely concentrated along the Perlemian Trade Route, the planet Desevro drifted at the center of over 40 worlds comprising the Alliance’s last defensible domain in the galaxy. Desevro was an unassuming ball of ice, covered by marshes and mountains and derelict ruins that could once be called cities in an age long ago. Its empty, inhospitable environment caused Desevro to go overlooked for most of the war. It was consequently investigated only two Standard months ago during the Republic’s early planning stages of a third attempt to liberate its close neighbor, Felucia. Extraplanetary scanning had revealed much more than its vacant surface implied: Desevro was operating as a fully outfitted warehouse for as much assault craft and droid storage as the Confederacy could hope to contain. “So _that’s_ why it’s been so hard to retake Felucia,” was the general sentiment at Intelligence Ops, though no one was brave enough to say it out loud.

For the Republic, the tides of war were ripe. Previous attempts to disrupt the network Separatist strength along the Perlemian Route had been made, but now, with their strongholds elsewhere in the galaxy shattered, there was nowhere left for the Alliance to run. If Desevro fell, the Perlemian Route fell with it. The Republic Army could once again send ships to Felucia. Felucia would finally be free, the Republic would regain its base of operations there, and the enemy’s reign would crumble from the inside out. On the other hand, if the campaign failed to take Desevro, further planets nearby would submit to Separatist rule. No one wanted to be allied with the Republic while floating _too_ close to Separatist space, especially since the Alliance began scrambling even harder than usual to inflate their enfeebled network. Thus the campaign began. Scattered along the very tallest ridges of the bitter Nasguin Mountains, northern hemisphere of Desevro, five Jedi encampments perched like watchful predators overseeing their prey.

Numerous encounters over the past three-and-a-half weeks left Desevro’s subarctic landscape a jagged, crater-filled wasteland with only the gleam of demolished assault craft to disrupt the homogenous sheen of snow. Since the clones arrived, however, such scenes were increasingly marked by fluorescent beacons of blue, green, and many colors more. Long series of lamps were plunged into the rock walls of every passage. Only Republic command could decipher their meanings—“safe route,” “use caution here,” “recent victory,” “poor terrain,” and so on—but standing high upon the alpine mountain ridges, the nighttime Nasguin horizon was an indecipherable sea of prisms. From the vantage of the encampments, more than fifty thousand clones were afforded such a magnificent sight. Each day, ever fewer.

Dawn had just begun to break when those lights extinguished themselves for the day. In one narrow, yet-to-be-marked valley, that morning brought with it the calamitous echoes of cannon fire, ringing loud enough to be heard from mountains away. Soaring columns of debris exploded like buckshot against the steep valley walls. A mess of clones ran wild for any small shelter, encaged in a flood of red beams. Their frenzied cries were barely decipherable above the artillery, droning into one continuous noise until all CT-6114 could hear were his own, quivering breaths resounding inside his helmet.

A simple scouting mission brought the 493rd to this valley of death. Charting a route to “subterranean hangar site 4”—or so he’d heard secondhand—was supposed to be unremarkable, at best, cold and monotonous, at worst. It was a fine sort of mission for tenderfooted grunts like him, fresh off the assembly and eager to touch ground without a scoreboard looming overhead. Orbital intelligence claimed Desevro’s Separatist facilities were somewhere underground. They certainly weren’t visible through satellite scans, anyway, though scanners did reveal several pit-like locations where enemy craft were suspected to be emerging from. Infiltration was well above CT-6114’s level, but he felt reasonably confident about surveying an entry point. “Taking a walk,” the company’s lieutenant had called it. Said lieutenant was unreachable by comm. CT-6114 didn’t know, but his body was already dusted over by indifferent mists of snow.

Cowering behind his cold, fragile snowdrift, CT-6114’s wide-eyed gaze was fixed on his blaster. After all, any glance up would only afford him a view of the narrow path that his company took coming into the valley. Nothing else. That’s as far they made it in. It was almost as if the enemy had been watching their approach the entire time, because the very instant the clones stepped foot into the valley, that was when the bombardment began. Not a word of warning from his Captain, just a foreboding pause from his General, whose preconception came seconds too late. He dared not peer outside. The deafening blasts and abbreviated cries were all he needed to understand the battle's progression.

His mind went blank. For as hard as CT-6114 stared, the snow-smattered blaster in his snow-smattered hands wouldn’t tell him what to do. He felt weak. His legs wouldn’t budge. A no-rank private like him—all he had to do was follow orders. Couldn’t he even do that? But for the last ten minutes, there were no orders to hear. Those minutes were lost an incomprehensible squall, infinite and instantaneous, a whirling canvas of piercing reds against a backdrop of suffocating white. Blurry, bloody chaos flew by at light speed. This wasn’t the rookie mission he planned for. He knew he’d been crafted to die, like everyone else he’d grown up with, but… Already? So soon? Was this really it? To be chalked up as one more in the meaningless sum of clones who failed a simple recon mission on Desevro?

_…I guess so._

CT-6114 felt himself disappear: the acceptance of death, the resignation of self. The change was strangely comforting, CT-6114 found. He hadn’t truly _failed_ because he never had the chance to do something in the first place. This wasn’t how he imagined his eventual mortal reconciliations would go, but all the same, he felt his fears slipping steadily into acquiescence. He could move again, and so he did. It wasn’t as though he really expected to win, shuffling onto his knees, to do what one man could to push the enemy back, but it was his job, and the realization had finally crested— that this would be his final act. Better make it memorable, if nothing else.

The crackle of static flared in through his comm.

He stopped.

“Uh-!” A hurried voice. Unsure. A clone. Officers’ channel. Captain Gil? More static. “—Uh, listen! Listen! If you can hear this, Go back to the checkpoint. That’s-” A rumbling, crunching sound, and then, “—That’s an order!”

Be it from training, genetics or personal desire, those were the words he needed to hear to smack him back from the dead and away from indifference. CT-6114’s fingers pattered over his blaster. His legs twitched, his mind cleared, and in spite of everything, he found himself promptly scrambling up to his feet and dashing back to the head of the valley.

Clusters of blaster bolts dogged him all the while, as well as the indistinct shadows copying his movements as they plowed on through the uphill landscape of snow. He couldn’t be bothered to pay them any mind. In through the cramped and rocky passage he ran. The ground shook after each new artillery strike that sounded off behind him, growing more and more distant. He trudged, the snow reaching level with his knees at some point, when one blast impacted louder than he’d ever imagined possible.

The passage walls collapsed into rubble, caving in on each other as they were reduced to twin, mirrored cascades filling the walkway between them. CT-6114 didn’t look back. Rocks precipitated in front of his visor, piling onto the ground as he leapt and tripped his way toward the open white field that lay just beyond. A sharp-edged boulder detached from the wall just ahead. CT-6114 watched its slow, reluctant descent, loosing a downpour of snow from above, accelerating his already-frantic speed in order to carry himself safely out of its range before it had time to land. Of course, snap decisions were never CT-6114’s forte. Crashing dead-center in front of his view, CT-6114 jerked back centimeters away from the rock in a flush of panic. The snow that followed was quickly barring any other way around. How he wished he had a map of the area—or the time to look at one, for that matter. Showers of dirt from the encroaching cave-in were already heralding his demise, beginning to block out his view of the sky and coat over his armor. It seemed that indecision would be his cause of death, after all, just as his squad mates said it would be.

CT-6114’s balance was stolen then, not by the debris he anticipated, but by one urgent and courageous brother on his way through the drift. He was fast, that much CT-6114 could tell. A glance at the other man’s armor—plain, white, like his own—and the arm towing his had vanished when they were each consumed by the downpour of snow.

No noise could reach them in here, encased as they were. Only muffled crunching outside to signal their smothering prison’s unstoppable growth, and a few, tapering booms from much further off to indicate the battle’s impending finale. CT-6114 wrestled awkwardly to free himself. The snow was heavy, wet, dark, and didn’t like hold shape, but if he hadn’t died yet, he figured he owed it to himself to try living. Handful after handful, the cold finally started to seep through CT-6114’s thermo-regulated underlayer. He abandoned his blaster. The snow still wouldn’t end. He scraped with both hands and pushed with both legs. The snow _still_ wouldn’t end. There was no way of knowing how deeply he’d been buried or how far he had yet to dig, so, as far as CT-6114 was concerned, it was simply a matter of moving until his body wore out.

After an indeterminate number of minutes, the rookie clone was greeted not only by the holy aperture of light he’d worried might never appear, but by the two pairs of hands from outside that helped to create it. A call, a firm grip, and CT-6114 was dragged out from the drift and onto all fours. The sunlight reflected mercilessly off the open expanse before him. As his breath heaved and his mind raced to catch up with the whirlwind of near-death events, he couldn’t help but notice that this empty field was unexpectedly… Empty. Five men in total stood in front of the rubble, in a similar state as him. Only five.

One man was on the ground, attended by another who’d accessed his med kit. One more was ambling somewhat restlessly, switching his gaze at regular intervals between CT-6114 and the injured one nearby. And the last man…

“Captain!” CT-6114 didn’t know many officers beyond what all first-timers knew: your regiment’s main hierarchy, big shots in the GAR, maybe a few famous (or infamous) folk, but he’d never mistake the mauve pattern of his Captain’s helmet. “Captain Gil! Sir-” he sputtered. He bounded over to him faster than his wobbling body was ready to.

The stoic clone was rigid, fixated on the now-impassable valley route as he stood with his rifle pointing down to the side. If he was blinking under that helmet, his posture wouldn’t give it away. The boisterous footfalls behind him hardly registered until CT-6114 appeared at his side, salute faltering and all out-of-breath.

“S-sir. You made it. _We_ made it. Glad to see you, sir. If you hadn’t ordered the retreat… Wait, where’s- Ah, I mean, what’s our next move? Is this…” He glanced around again, just to be sure, “…What about the rest of the company, sir?”

Not one of his questions were answered. With a detached sort of slowness, the quiet man turned. And for a long while, he did nothing else. He merely stared, prompting CT-6114 to replay his own words in his head. He surely must’ve said something idiotic. But as he struggled and made to apologize, a hand struck out and slapped the salute away from his head.

“Don’t… _ever_. Show me that kind of respect.” The warning was low. Broken. As if awoken from a dream, the clone ripped the helmet from his head like it were on fire. Underneath, a face full of torment that wasn’t Captain Gil’s in the slightest.

And now that CT-6114 had the mind to notice, the helmet’s accompanying armor lacked Captain Gil’s sense of decoration, too. Either he hadn’t truly appreciated what his commanding officer looked like this morning, or, well, CT-6114 hoped he was wrong. “Captain— Uh-”

 _“I’M NOT THE BLOODY CAPTAIN! Get it?!”_ Leaning over him in his rage, the impostor garnered the other three’s attention, as well. “I _don’t_ know our next move, and everybody else is either _dead_ or buried under the rocks. I’m just—”

Four sets of eyes bore into him as one. Even the artillery had come to a close, leaving the Nasguin Mountain range a silent courtroom of judgement.

“I’m just…” their defendant wavered, unable to process the full weight of guilt bearing down upon him, “Listen, I wasn’t _trying_ to…”

Then, as if he’d reached some kind of internal decision, the fear and uncertainty faded away from his form. Standing a little straighter now, he faced each man in turn.

“My name is CT-6101. I’m not Captain Gil. I don’t— I don’t have any rank. It was just…” he paused, staring hard into the snow, “I was right beside the Captain the whole time. When everything started, I kept waiting for orders.”

CT-6114 knew the feeling exactly.

“He got one right in the head. Right here. I saw him go down.” CT-6101 flicked his own forehead then, trapped in the image that burned so clearly in his immediate memory. “I didn’t… Know what to do, so I comm’d for the General. She—” another pause, a gathering of words before he continued, “She never answered, see. Saw her run ahead when the lasers started flying. I went to go look for her…”

Nobody spoke. CT-6101 fidgeted in revitalized distress for a moment, looking back at the collapsed passage, the distant peaks, anywhere that wasn’t the gaze of his brothers. He ran a hand over his close-shaven head. The hand then trailed down to his back, reaching for something attached to the back of his belt. When he brought the object forward, there was little interest left in scrutinizing CT-6101.

Their General’s lightsaber glimmered with chilling dignity as it rested upon CT-6101’s careful palm.

He closed his hand. “I don’t… Know what to say. I just—” Grip tightening, the anger slipped back in his voice. “I just didn’t want any more’v our brothers to die in that slaughterhouse! I kriffing _ran_ to the Captain, I stole the kriffin’ lid clean off his head, and I ordered the retreat. My comms aren’t authorized for company broadcast. So I did it. I impersonated a commanding officer. And y’know what else? It’s just us now. No Captain, no Jedi, just four good men and a traitor. That’s all I could do. I’m… Sorry.”


	2. Chapter 2

Luminara Unduli stood statuesque, regal and immovable, looking out over the thin precipice of the mountain’s edge dividing her from the endless swell of lesser mountains below. Behind her, the 41st Elite Corps’ encampment bustled at a steady pace. Most buildings here were similar in shape: vast, metallic wedges that knelt low to the ground in hopes of gathering a healthy layer of snow for camouflage, while simultaneously eliminating as many tall, shadow-generating surfaces as possible. The desired result was achieved, and the 41st encampment was a serene blanket of white peppered with bizarre, seemingly free-standing walls peeking out from the snow.

“General.” The familiar voice cut short her meditation. The interruption was expected, however, for in the course of the past hour, Luminara’s perception was spread far and wide across the range, flawlessly attuned to all manner of happenings, present and future, with her trademark precision that few other Force-sensitive beings could match. Something was wrong. She felt this acutely, a great, blaring rift in the Force, and just as expected, Commander Gree arrived to deliver the news. She turned in placid acknowledgement.

“General Unduli,” Gree repeated himself, “We received an SOS transmission from Jade Company. Captain Gil, of the 493rd.”

No betrayal of emotion reached Luminara’s outward bearing as she took in the report. “Yes… I sensed a disturbance from the east,” she mused passively.

“Should we send a rescue squad, sir? Coordinates from the transmission make _us_ the closest encampment to their signal.”

“Make room for their accommodations and depart immediately. Send word to the other encampments that we have intercepted the signal and intend to pursue. In the meantime, I will contact General Zuthra.” Or so she said, though little doubt remained in Luminara’s mind that Knight Zuthra was already gone.

\- - -

The sparse group of five waited there at the tall drift clogging the entrance into the valley, half-heartedly expecting that someone else might pop through in need of help. For as long as they waited, however, nobody came. The cold and oppressive blankness of the environment quickly grew hard to ignore, and soon everyone was on edge about standing just one tunnel away from a battlefield crawling with droids. Ultimately, they all started walking once CT-6101 found he could no longer stay put. Even after thoroughly renouncing himself of any leadership qualifications, something about his independence spurred the other four to follow suit.

Since then, they’d been trudging along for ten minutes. What otherwise might have been a somber journey was pricked every now and again by a stream of incessantly cheerful comments, originating only from CT-4134, which, every time, failed to spark conversation that lasted more than a single retort. “I think we ought to be proud of ourselves!” he tried yet again. A helpful man, to be sure, given he’d pulled three of their group out from the drift and gave them each a nervous once-over, but if he was planning to fix everyone’s moods with some ill-timed encouragement, his expectations were far from met.

“Stuff it, will you?! I’ll knock your kriffing _lights out_ if I hear any more of that sod!” CT-5820, given the name “Starch” by his squad on Kamino, was trailing a shorter length of patience than usual, owing to the constant and splitting pain harassing his left side. There wasn’t much to be done with a standard-issue medical kit; damage to his extent would take weeks to heal, at least.

His threatening fist was lazily batted aside by CT-6952, the clone whose med kit Starch wore and was currently serving as his crutch. “Let it go, Starch, he’s not hurting anyone.”

“He’s hurting my ears, that’s what.” He shot a sour look of annoyance in CT-4134’s direction then, but filtered through the unchanging mask of his helmet, the effect was watered down.

Accordingly, CT-4134 didn’t appear to take the hint. “Look, I’m just trying to say we’re alive! If even one survivor makes it out of an ambush, protocol mandates we go back to report. Because we survived, we can _warn_ command about the enemy! That way, things’ll be different the next time we come this way. We’re saving lives,” he shrugged, “Sort of. If the General was here, we’d be doin’ the same thing anyway. Well, maybe not… _Us,_ specifically, but-”

“General’s not here, _Mum.”_ The salt in Starch’s tone was palpable.

_“Mum?!”_

Disregarding the potentially life-defining moment that CT-4134 was christened with his unfortunate name, as well as the ensuing argument over it, CT-6114 finally spoke up. “Ah, hey, so… I’ve been thinking. And… Is General Zuthra really… Y’know, dead?”

“Saw the lightsaber didn’t we?” CT-6952 affirmed with an air of practicality. He hoisted Starch a bit more firmly then, winning a moment of quietude from the injured man for his efforts.

“Well, yeah, but… It’s just a weapon, right? It could mean anything.”

“Right. And you’re supposing she’d just hand it over, in the middle of a fight?”

Embarrassed, CT-6114 shrunk down a bit. “No, I just can’t see it, is all. Jedi are- Well they’re _Jedi,_ right? They’re not _supposed_ t’die.” A long stretch of hesitation wafted between him and CT-6952 then, each of them failing to fully grasp the concept of a mortal Jedi. It seemed contradictory. “I know,” he finally rationalized with a tinge of excitement creeping into his voice, “Maybe she dropped it!”

CT-6952 scoffed. “I’d sooner imagine a Jedi kickin’ the bucket than being clumsy enough to drop her own _lightsaber.”_

The banter continued, and although he wouldn’t contribute, CT-6101 knew for sure. He wasn’t afforded the luxury of pondering whether Jedi could die. He came to terms with that perplexing idea about half an hour ago, when he watched it firsthand, up-close, in all its gory detail. At this point, he was the only one left who’d maintained the silence they’d all left the valley with. While CT-6114 and 6952 waxed philosophical on mortality, Starch and Mum bickered along pointlessly—by now, likely as an odd form of stress relief.

Undistracted, CT-6101 was first to detect the ghost-like shapes looming forth from the snow-shrouded distance. He wasted no time. Frozen in place, his left arm struck out with the urgent signal to find cover. And though the improvised squad behind him needed a few moments to halt, spot the signal, locate cover, and wade over to a place they could use it, they at least didn’t stop to ask questions. The battle hadn’t left CT-6101, and he was grateful it hadn’t left the others yet, either.

Compacting himself behind one of many boulders that had long since been consumed in the snow, CT-6101 brought his blaster close to his chest. The enemy was here; he needed a plan. Should he toss a grenade? Bury himself in the snow? Unless the droids had bioscanners, he could easily— _Wait,_ he stopped himself, _No. That’s irrelevant._ CT-6101 had a team to think about. The shapes ahead didn’t seem too many to handle, so if he managed these men well, they might avoid casualties. They might even take down the threat, all things going well. He wasn’t alone. Faster than he knew he could think, lightning flashes of tactics and possible scenarios rushed through his head. He couldn’t tell where the others had gone. That complicated things, but it was safe enough to assume they were no more than a few seconds away from anyone else. The only missing variables were the variety and pace of the droids. Once he had those, he would again don their Captain’s stolen mantle to communicate the plan. With any luck, it’d be his last time.

Ever so slowly, CT-6101 peeked out from the rock. The enemy’s shapes were clearer now, though not by too much. Bipedal, six vehicles. Droids were a uniform size, thicker than usual and generally spread-out, making them… Not… droids. The closer they came, the more obvious it was. It _had_ been a while since he’d requested aid through the general officer’s channel, so it made sense they’d be intercepted soon. Last battle’s massacre must have been making him paranoid. In a rush of relief, CT-6101 stepped out to greet them. Soon enough, the others did, too. Their hearts swelled at the welcome sight of the incoming 41st, except CT-6101, who foresaw the repercussions of this meeting from the minute he picked up their General’s lightsaber.

“Captain!” he heard someone call. There was no way this could end well.

The low whine of the rescue team’s Freeco bikes dwindled down to a hum as they slowed, altogether surrounding the small group of five in short order. Those on foot were not far behind, led at the front by Commander Gree himself.

“We received an SOS transmission from this location,” he said on approach. The statement wasn’t necessarily directed at anyone, however, as his visor continued to drift left and right. Searching. Dissatisfied.

“You there,” he suddenly pointed at CT-6101, “Where is General Zuthra and the rest of Jade company?”

Instinct growled at him to adopt the rigid stature of a subordinate then, but strangely, CT-6101 couldn’t muster the enthusiasm to try. “Sir, we’re all that’s left.”

Several of the rescue team expressed their confusion at that—looking over the field again, looking at one another—and Gree narrowed his eyes. “What’re you on about, _private?_ That transmission was sent by your Captain. You mean to tell me you got separated?”

 _In a way, sure._ CT-6101 gripped his rifle harder. It would have to happen sooner or later, but he wasn’t exactly looking forward to being court-martialed. Still, the longer he stalled, the longer his remaining brothers would be out in the cold. The result was unavoidable. He sighed, resigning his fate to whatever it’d be.

“No, sir, command has been killed in action. I mean it, sir, we’re all that’s left. I’ve been using the Captain’s helmet to—”

No sooner than CT-6101 began to elaborate, however, he was sharply nudged aside by CT-6114, who suddenly stood in too-close proximity. “—What he _means,_ sir, is that after the Captain ordered retreat, he sent the rescue signal for any of us who’d make it this far. It uh, _appears,_ he did not. CT-six…,” he pondered for a moment, “-Six one-oh-one, here, says he found the Captain dead. Brought his helmet along in case any other battalion comm’d back for more information, or if the situation changed and we needed to warn you. …Sir.”

The other four were dumbstruck. They’d only known each other for maybe half an hour thus far, but nothing in CT-6114’s modest demeanor could have prepared them for the complex lie he dropped in their laps. In front of a Commander, no less. Gree knew none of what went through their minds, but while he thought CT-6114’s rendition seemed believable at first pass, he also was perceptive enough to read that the others didn’t agree. Motioning to the mismatched helmet dangling from CT-6101’s grip, he now addressed them all.

“That true?”

No response. Only a startled concert of head-turning, waiting to see whether somebody else would speak. CT-6114 kept his view on Gree. CT- 6101 kept his view on _him._

Eventually, it was Starch who gave voice to their discomfort. “I… Seem to remember things differently, sir,” he professed. Still attached at his side, CT-6952 made no move to stop him. The role thus fell to Mum, who went in with a peaceable, bipartisan appeal.

“Ah, the thing is, sir, none of us were actually _there_ when the orders came out. The five of us managed to escape once we got word of retreat, but that’s all we know for sure.”

Undeniably, Gree sensed _something_ amiss in these men’s shifty delivery and lack of confidence, but at the same time, he sensed that sussing out the truth would keep everyone out in the snow and exposed to the enemy longer than they had any business being. His goal was to pick up survivors. There would be plenty of time to interrogate later when he could see all their faces. “We’ll talk about this at camp. Right now, you’re coming with us,” he decided, and signaled one of his team’s swoop bikes to accommodate Starch. “The sooner we find General Zuthra, the sooner we can get out of here.”

The ambient winds were then joined by the troubled noises of Starch’s difficult transfer. In the meantime, without comment, CT-6101 produced said General’s lightsaber. He held it forward, prompting Gree to accept.

The hard look of resilience dulled from his eyes in that moment, tracing the young clone’s vacant expression down to his hand. _That_ was why their mission had failed. _That_ was why he hadn’t heard back from Luminara, and _that_ was perhaps the greatest loss Gree felt since their campaign on Desevro began. And in CT-6101’s other hand, the gear of his Captain. Whatever the real story was that took place in that valley, Gree had a feeling it was worse than he thought.


	3. Chapter 3

The trip back to the 41st encampment demanded such a wealth of stamina that almost anyone would have gladly traded places with Starch. The swoop bikes took the long way back up the mountain—a tedious path full of switchbacks and detours, while the others on foot scaled several sets of vertical or near-vertical slopes. It was basic training all over again. And for the four men whose morning already had them hiking into, and then running _out_ of, a valley almost twenty kilometers away from their camp, it was nigh torture. When it all finally ended and the last man crested the cloud-scraping plateau, there was, disappointingly, little to see to reward them. Hidden as well as the 41st was, the only thing to signal their arrival at camp was the meandering crowd of olive-marked clones that steadily became more differentiable from the surrounding white.

“Chin, take care of the survivors,” ordered Gree, almost as an afterthought. With Zuthra’s lightsaber in hand and his mission completed, he departed their group without so much as a wave and made for the most peculiar feature of all in this camouflaged village: a single metallic door sticking out from the snow, framed in an alcove so meticulously shoveled that whoever resided within must be important indeed.

As the group’s next highest in command, a warmly padded clone nodded to Gree’s instruction. He dismissed the remaining members of their team. Looking then to his charge, Chin saw that each man rescued was _still_ struggling to breathe, whereas nobody else had broken a sweat. _Shiny as chrome,_ he thought to himself, waving them along without a second to rest. Sluggishly, they plodded their way into the labyrinthine trenches that connected each of the 41st buildings. It was something out of a dream for them to move their legs freely again. Mum skimmed his hand along the top of the waist-high walls of snow that flanked them as they each walked single file.

The trenches were clean—Immaculate, even. Clones outfitted in cold weather gear crossed through up ahead without any trouble, having memorized the whole network of routes. And just like them, Chin had no trouble navigating through the length of the camp. Tossing a half-hearted gesture to his right, he indicated one of the nearby building fronts while he led the group forward. “Mess hall. We go by meal times in the 41st; you miss dinner, you’re outta luck. Keeps the men organized and makes inventory quick. Next meal is at twelve hundred hours.”

Half-listening, Mum leaned in toward CT-6952’s ear. “I wonder how big the place is under all that snow…”

CT-6952 wasn’t gullible enough to feed Mum’s annoying habit of idle chatter, but all the same, he sort of missed having Starch around to say the explosive things he himself felt like saying whenever Mum started again.

“Quarters,” Chin carried on once they passed a remarkably similar front, “We were ah… Expecting a few more’a you, so you might find the accommodations a bit roomy tonight.”

“Sir?”

Craning back a ways, Chin identified CT-6114 with his hand partway raised around the level of his chest. Chin’s pace slowed, as well, forcing everyone behind him to do the same until it became obvious enough he expected CT-6114 to continue.

“Not- Not to sound… ungrateful _,_ sir, but how long can we expect to stay here until we return to our unit?”

Chin paused, articulating his confusion through a small tilt of his smooth, specialized helmet. “Unit?” A second spent in analysis, and then the question made sense. “Right… Great. Here we go.” Exasperation colored his tone. He turned fully around. It wasn’t his job to explain this, but he’d also mistakenly expected these men would already know. “Listen kids, you don’t _have_ a unit anymore. A battalion without a General might get on for a little while with upper command, but I’m sure I don’t need to remind you that as of today, the 493rd doesn’t have that, either.” The barrel of his sniper rifle tapped Captain Gil’s helmet, which yet remained in CT-6101’s care. “Tell me. What’s a rancor when you take off its head?” he asked with a following pause, “Dead. Doesn’t matter how good you were as a group. Without Jedi, you’ll be reassigned somewhere else. Can’t say where, but I’d bet my life you’ll be seeing new action within a few days.”

The prospect of reassignment added yet another drastic change to what was turning out to be the least predictable day of the year, and for the rest of their abbreviated tour, Chin was uninterrupted. The final stop brought them all to the encampment’s medical wing. It was conveniently located next to the hangar, which was perhaps the only structure whose exposed face was readily distinguishable from other buildings. Here Chin directed the four to stay for examination, noting from the hangar’s stock of Freecos that Starch would have been admitted some time ago. He left then, and though his presence wasn’t deep in the realm of “affectionate,” his absence made the whole camp seem much more intimidating.

Examinations proceeded swiftly after that, and, to everyone’s satisfaction, were without event. The squad therefore elected to take residence in the otherwise uninhabited waiting room until Starch could return. If nothing else, it was the first heated, enclosed space they had been in since their mission began the previous night, and the image of chairs was mysteriously comforting after all they’d been through. Clinical though the environment was, it was pleasantly mundane, and felt lightyears away from the unknowable chaos of the wasteland outside.

“So. Guess that’s it for the 493rd,” CT-6952 summarized from his squeaking chair by the small coffee table. His helmet was the only decoration on it.

“They can’t just _disband_ us, can they? An entire battalion? What’re they gonna do, merge us? Sort us out with those aptitude tests on Kamino?” CT-6114 was either intensely anxious or exceedingly curious, already digging into the logistical nightmare of hierarchical reassignment.

Mum’s solution was to wander the office until he came upon something edible. Having failed, however, he returned to their makeshift dining room with cups of hot water. “If I know the 493rd, that whole ‘scheduled meal times’ business won’t sit well with _anyone_ if the whole lot gets plunked over here.” Each man at the table received his drink before Mum fetched a chair of his own.

“I just can’t stop thinking about the rest of us back at base,” CT-6114 reflected, absently sipping his hot water as though it were perfectly normal to do so. “All they know is we’re late. I mean, think about it: the SOS call must’ve been sent through the priority officer’s channel if we were picked up by a Commander, and if that’s the case, no one left in the 493rd ranks high enough to get the same message. They’re sitting ducks out there! So if _I_ were the enemy, and if _I_ knew we’d killed a Jedi, that’s where I’d be in _minutes._ Then, say the enemy comes,” he drew some imaginary lines on the table with his finger, “Who’s gonna send for backup? Nobody’s got the officers’ channel, right? D’you see where I’m going with this?”

Through the duration of CT-6114’s long string of predictions, Mum leaned further and further away. “Cripes, get a load’a this egghead. You plan _everything_ you do that far?”

CT-6952 kept glancing between him, Mum, and the disposable cup in front of him, perplexed by the fact that he was apparently the only one who noticed anything strange about being served hot water. “…Riiight. Well, now that the 41st command is in the loop, I think we can shelf any concerns about communication. They’ll take it from here whether we agree with their methods or not. Handful of low-ranking scraps like us are more of a nuisance than anything.”

“Aw, don’t talk like that, Nine fifty-two. We’re the only guys out of _hundreds_ who made it out of that bowl. That’s gotta say somethin’ good about us, don’t ya think?” As ever, nothing could penetrate Mum’s everlasting optimism. 

CT-6952 could only sigh. “We were in the right place at the right time. Don’t let it go to your head.”

“Fine, fine. But even if it’s got nothing to do with us, it sure as hell’s got to do with One-oh-one. If it weren’t for him, we’d— _Oofgh!”_

The force of CT-6114’s palm almost knocked Mum out of his chair when it slapped over his mouth. Hot water went everywhere. He didn’t elaborate, but the menace in CT-6114’s gaze said all there was to say. One slip, and the lie they were currently operating under would shatter, spelling court martials for at least half their group.

Taking a brief, inconspicuous glance around the small room, CT-6952 lowered his voice. “We should… Probably talk about that.”

All eyes were on CT-6101. He sat at the end of their table, contained by himself, hitherto mulling over the words they were left with from Chin. Were clones really so incapable of functioning without Jedi? Without higher command? All their years of training, their strict self-discipline, the bonds of fraternity they shared—what did any of that have to do with the few people sitting on top? Admittedly, CT-6101 had little experience to cite, but he could at least say with certainty that having a couple officers nearby didn’t do much to prevent this morning’s massacre. The painful _smack_ resounding off Mum’s face startled him from his thoughts.

“Oh, uh… Sorry. Wasn’t listening. Say again?”

But before anyone risked reexplaining the topic, a set of doors in the far corner of the room split open with a pneumatic hiss. Accompanied through them by one overbearing service droid was Starch, who repeatedly bat the poor nurse away from his arm. “Stop it you— Wait a second, what’re you four doing here?!” he called out to the group. His walking speed wasn’t natural, by anyone’s appraisal, but pride forbid him from accepting the droid’s extra help.

Shoving the hand from his mouth, Mum raised his cup with a grin. “Starch! We’re the welcoming crew! You didn’t think we’d leave ya _behind_ , did you?”

\- - -

While the 493rd survivors reveled in their reunion, a very different reunion commenced inside Luminara’s conference room. The circular chamber was dark. Streaks of light filtered in through durasteel shutters protecting the ultrawide viewport, which wrapped around the room’s entire north face. Perhaps during less serious occasions, the shutters might retract to reveal the mountainous Nasguin horizon in all its panoramic glory. But now, the darkness was purposeful, intended to enhance clarity of the three holographic titans standing before her, blue and flickering in various states of duress:

Master Agen Kolar stood tall and impatient, clenching his fist around the hilt of his unignited lightsaber. Engaged in a major assault some hundred kilometers away, his focus was strained between the battle ongoing and the emergency meeting he was forced to attend.

Knight Rog-Patil Vek was far calmer. Located safely among his troops under the rocky overhang they called home, he was comparatively free to speak as his men prepared for a nighttime assignment.

Lastly, crouched amid his snipers along a sheer and overcrowded cliff, Master Obi-Wan Kenobi awaited Agen’s signal to attack.

Their confluence suffered the bitter absence of Knight Cambim Zuthra.

“I apologize for the abruptness of this call,” Luminara began. Her hands folded behind her. Commander Gree, having discussed the situation just prior, stepped a respectful pace back.

“Let us keep this discussion brief, Master Unduli. I cannot stay far from the battle for long.” Agen’s lightsaber flashed into life just as soon as it re-extinguished, long enough to deflect the bolt that was aimed for his head.

“Indeed.” She nodded once and began her report without further delay. “I regret to confirm that General Zuthra has perished. The company escorting her has been wiped out as well, including her second-in-command, Captain Gil. I called this meeting to decide how we will compensate for their loss.”

Although Agen demanded haste, even he was shocked into silence. His hologram stirred, pixelated for a moment from the nearby impact of Separatist mortars, though still he said nothing.

“I… I see,” contemplated Obi-Wan. Perhaps distracted by the very same mortars, he glanced to his side. Then, turning back, a renewed urgency set into his voice. “How many did we lose?”

“Two hundred sixteen,” Luminara relayed, disallowing any hint of tragedy into her answer. “We received the survivors not long ago.”

“How did she fall?” asked Agen, “We must be prepared to face the same threat.”

“Of that we are unsure. The survivors are undergoing medical examination and will be questioned today. We do know that the company was engaged in a reconnaissance mission to ascertain the location of a possible entrance into the storage facility. Considering their opposition, I believe the location was likely correct. But more importantly, Master Kolar, I suggest we discuss the vulnerability that Knight Zuthra’s passing creates. The 41st will send officers to supplement the 493rd in the interim, but our eastern position is compromised.”

An idea occurred to Rog-Patil then, and his posture changed to embody his passion. “Send them to me. The 352nd could use reinforcements. We’ll spread out our encampment and adjust the 212th and 41st positions to compensate for the loss of our eastern position.”

Distanced by hologram though they were, the look of offense that Luminara and Obi-Wan shared in that instant was so powerful, so identical, that had Agen been paying better attention, he’d surely have ruined the solemnity of this call with his laughter.

“General Vek, while I see the utility in such an idea, there may be a wiser resolution,” counseled Obi-Wan in his best conciliatory tone, “May I suggest that we—”

An ear-piercing screech filled Luminara’s conference room, distorting the quality of Obi-Wan and Agen’s holograms into unidentifiable patterns of buzzing blue lines. Luminara flinchingly covered her ears. Gree ran to restore the transmission from the terminal. Shortly thereafter, a partially-reconfigured image of Cody appeared, while Agen’s transmission was cut out entirely.

“General Unduli?” pressed Rog-Patil. “General Kolar! What’s happening?” His image remained stable, by comparison, leaving Luminara and Gree to infer that the battle occupying Agen and Obi-Wan had taken a turn for the worse. For a moment then, Obi-Wan’s transmission went blank, sending naught but the ominous “reconnecting” message upon Luminara’s terminal. When the connection reestablished at last, a pervading background of static spread into the call. “Ah—Where was I?” She heard Obi-Wan ask. His hologram reappeared running, looking somewhere into the sky with his lightsaber ablaze. “Yes, now I remember. General Vek, if I may—” he slid to a stop, preparing a stance, “If I may— _Suggest—!”_ And gone once again. This time, the transmission was ended completely. It did not return, leaving Rog-Patil and Luminara to decide on their own.

And Luminara was _not_ about to let Rog-Patil reorganize her troops.

Accepting a split second to compose herself, she cleared her throat, asserting herself as a member of the Jedi Council. “Yes. Well. So much for _that._ General Vek, for the time being, I shall assume temporary command of the 493rd. Until we can establish reliable communications, this discussion remains outstanding. I must go now and determine whether Masters Kolar and Kenobi require our assistance.” She nodded in Gree’s direction then, though Rog-Patil was unable to see.

“Wait!” Rog-Patil cried before she terminated their call. Luminara’s hand rested over the button. “Please, Master. At least send me the survivors. Our last assault lost a lot of men. We’ll need them tonight for our run on the Chentuu Pass.”

“Fine.” Luminara had better things to deal with than argue over the placement of five clones. But unbeknownst to her, that single word, uttered with the best intentions to help her fellow Jedi, would yet again catapult those survivors into unfamiliar territory.


	4. Chapter 4

Starch hobbled into the 41st mess hall just a couple paces after the others, purposefully positioned out of their view so as to enable himself to limp without restraint. Upon their departure from the medical wing, CT-6952 _had_ offered him his shoulder (once again), but Starch made the crucial mistake of insisting he felt no pain at all. It was a gut reaction more than anything, but whether the decision was wise or not, Starch felt compelled to stick to his word. And so, lest he torment himself further by waiting in line for the cafeteria droids, he plopped onto one round stool out of many in the vast, underground mess hall, pretending he wasn’t hungry.

“Eat,” came a voice like his own from behind.

A filled plate clattered in front of him, and before he was allowed to react, CT-6952 sat by his side. The other three members of their detachment swarmed around similarly. It had been only minutes since the chronometer blinked at twelve hundred hours, and already the mess hall was jammed to the walls.

“These guys don’t fool around,” commented Mum, gesturing with his fork.

“If my regiment had scheduled meal times, I wouldn’t fool around either,” CT-6114 reasoned.

No more than a couple bites in, the array of speakers built into the walls emitted a long, simultaneous _beep,_ and then came to life. “Gunnery crew Sandman, report for duty immediately at hangar oh-one. Repeat, gunnery crew Sandman…”

It was testament to the 41st’s orderliness that the bulk of the message was not lost the first time around. The cacophony of lunchtime tapered off with unnatural swiftness, only to be reborn in the form of synchronized chair-scraping and utensil-dropping from the men who answered the call. Within seconds, the fifty-odd clones comprising gunnery crew Sandman were on their way out the doors while their food sat untouched. A shared display of raised eyebrows communicated the 493rd squad’s amazement.

Mum looked as though he was prepared to comment, but just as he began to break the hall’s respectful quietude, the announcement continued: “All members of the 493rd Siege Battalion are to report to landing zone beta as soon as possible.”

The majority of the remaining 41st clones were visibly confused. Only those few in the hall who directly participated in the latest rescue expedition even knew of the 493rd’s presence. Unmarked as they were, no one would guess that the five men sitting off on their own were out of place.

CT-6101’s face contorted in a flash of irritation. Still, following example, he pushed his plate forward and stood from his chair. Anyone presently surveying the crowd for these unexpected members of the 493rd locked onto him instantly, perhaps disappointed by how plain and few they actually were. Starch was next to rise. CT-6952 rose after him, as a precaution, discreetly noting the vast number of eyes scanning over them as the ambient, conversational backdrop began to return. Judging Starch capable of standing, he then turned to Mum and CT-6114.

“Hey. Comm said 493rd. That’s us, for now.”

CT-6114 swallowed before speaking. “Yeah, but I reckon we’ve got a few minutes. _We_ got an ‘as soon as possible.’ _They_ got ‘immediately.’ Who knows the next time we’ll get something hot in our stomachs?”

“Bet’cha I can stuff all this down in less than a minute if I try,” challenged Mum to himself.

“Don’t,” cautioned CT-6952.

Weighing CT-6114’s perspective with a thumb under his chin, CT-6101 found he agreed. Any mission requiring five tired grunts couldn’t be too important. And command might not like it, but command also didn’t consider that these men needed to eat. If worse came to worst, they’d simply say they got lost. “He’s right. We should eat while we can.” Deliberation completed, CT-6101 retook his seat.

“Really?” Starch argued back in surprise, “Come on you guys, show some respect. If they wanted us ten minutes from now, they’d _call_ us ten minutes from now.”

“You really think they care?” questioned CT-6101, taking a sip from his cup.

Starch felt his jaw tighten at the blatant show of disrespect. “Yes, I _do._ Where do you get off taking jabs at command, anyway? I kept my mouth shut down in the field, but don’t think I’ve forgotten that shady affair with you and Fourteen.” An allusive glance down at CT-6114 signaled his conspiratorial guilt.

The atmosphere changed for CT-6114 then, and he responded accordingly, slowing his meal while preparing to halt this discussion by any means necessary in the event things became too detailed to announce to the entire hall.

CT-6101 turned to face Starch more fully. Swirling the last of his drink, he sat the cup down with a resounding _clack._ “Hang on now—is this a threat I’m hearing?”

“Depends on your answer.” For someone who’d been struggling to walk mere moments ago, Starch was clearly positioned to fight. CT-6101 took the reciprocal position to meet him.

“Uh- Hey. Guys. Let’s take it down a notch, all right?” Mum interjected nervously. Abandoning his food, he shuffled out of his chair and leaned partially over the table to mediate. Unfortunately, neither man heeded his advice.

CT-6101 rose a second time, this time more slowly, matching the defiance in Starch’s gaze at eye-level. “I don’t think I like what you’re implying, _Starch._ I’ve been on _your_ side since this whole job began.” A stern finger drilled into Starch’s chestplate. “Matter of fact, all’v _us_ are the only damn reason you’re even _alive._ But I’m guessing you’ll blame that on command, too.”

“Tough talk from a man in line for a court martial,” Starch seethed, shoving CT-6101’s arm back. “You wanna add sedition to that list?”

“No,” countered CT-6101, “But I might add assault.”

The answering sound of CT-6101’s knuckles cracking was all of a sudden obscured by the heavy slap of Starch’s fist colliding with his squadmate’s face. CT-6101 stumbled back, Starch vaulted ahead, and the whole mess hall erupted in a frenzied attempt to restore order.

CT-6952 was the last of the group to be tossed in the snow. Surrounded by hundreds of men who knew better, the 493rd’s little spat was over before a second blow was even exchanged. The five of them were wrangled in short order, escorted roughly to the hall’s entrance, and thrown unceremoniously into the cold. CT-6114 stood hapless nearby as he watched Mum extricate their final member. “I uh…” he began, dumping the snow from his helmet before putting it on, “Don’t suppose this’ll be going on record, ya think?” He looked in CT-6101’s direction then, hoping to ease the obvious tension, but CT-6101 did not reply, staring fixedly ahead with a permanent scowl affixed to his now-bloodied face.

“You all right?” Mum asked as he pulled CT-6952 into the trench and onto his feet. Overbearing as his namesake implied, he checked him over head-to-toe, brushing the excess snow from the crevices in his armor. “Sorry to say, but it looks like we lost your bucket somewhere in all that.”

CT-6952 couldn’t care less about his helmet at that moment. Waving Mum out of his space, he stepped two paces over to Starch, who leaned pitifully on the trench’s wall for support. Then, faster than Starch could react, he delivered a single, targeted jab to the clone’s injured side. Nobody made a move to intervene as Starch crumbled in on himself in a loud wail of pain. “…Well,” CT-6952 concluded, already beginning to wade past the others, “Might as well get ourselves to the landing zone. Something tells me we won’t be seeing much _hospitality—”_ a firm nudge past CT-6101, “—from the 41st after this.”

Landing zone beta was one of many in a series of unassuming, flat stretches of duracrete that served both as landing pad and hangar entrance, when the zone bifurcated to reveal its underground vehicle storage. Beta was identifiable in part because of its placard’s description, but more strikingly, it was situated within plain view of landing zone alpha, whose divided expanse was currently opened wide to allow the removal of heavy artillery, munitions containers, and gunships to carry it all. Gunnery crew Sandman was well underway with their preparations to support the distant battle waged by Agen Kolar. The neighboring zone, by comparison, was significantly less impressive. Totally closed, the platform housed only one, stationary LAAT while six or seven clones wandered the premises without much to do.

It was difficult _not_ to watch the grand deployment next door as each of the surviving 493rd stepped up to zone beta. Mum whistled, now towing Starch to substitute for CT-6952’s lack of concern. “Gonna be loud wherever _that_ ends up going.”

“More ‘siege’ than I ever saw in _our_ battalion,” agreed Starch.

While most of the men ambling around the LAAT appeared rather casual, one figure stood apart from the rest, abnormally still, watching their group with intent as they approached the craft’s open deck. “Fancy meeting you troublemakers again,” Chin quipped in greeting. Affording them no time to retort, he once again employed his long rifle as a teaching baton and tapped its barrel against the side of the LAAT. “All aboard,” he announced, prompting them each to obey. It took no less than Chin’s strongest force of will to prevent him from busting out laughing at CT-6101’s swelling eye as he passed into the ship. _This kid is going places._

Chin stepped on last. Seeing that everyone had his share of the overhead stanchion in hand, he then signaled the pilots and turret gunners nearby to assemble inside and prepare for flight. This time, it was the top of his rifle that suffered as he angled it up, banging the interior cabin’s ceiling four times. Miraculously, everyone in the crew seemed to know what it meant. The LAAT rumbled softly with each man fitting into position.

“…Lieutenant, sir,” CT-6114 ascertained, leaning a bit to the side to examine Chin’s rank bars, “It might not be my place to ask, but uh, we… Don’t actually know where we’re going right now.”

“I’d be more surprised if you did.” The thick cabin doors locked into place. “As of now, all of you are hereby reassigned to the 352nd. Seems General Vek put in a special request. Lucky you.”

Rather than finding the news exciting, however, the clones were confused. Suffused in the roar of the ship’s repulsors firing up, they each glanced around briefly, possibly gauging whether any of them knew of the 352nd beyond its number. Their awkwardly sustained silence indicated that they did not.

“Er… Right,” retracted Chin. “Anyway, I’m here for escort. Under normal circumstances you’d all be questioned about that botched recon mission first, but you know how it goes. General’s orders get the top of the stack. So. Let’s get this done quick.” The LAAT ascended in one clean lurch. Everyone aboard was rocked side-to-side, but Chin was content to release the supports nonetheless, positioning his gun to prop himself up instead. His hands were repurposed in the task of retrieving a datapad clipped somewhere underneath his kama. Bringing the slab to his face, he typed a few sequences before looking up and surveying the group. “We’ll start with the big one: any of you see how General Zuthra was killed?”

“Wait—we’re being questioned _now?_ Here?” contended Mum.

“That’s the idea,” Chin dismissed blasely, not looking up from his pad. “C’mon. We’ve got until this thing lands, and no longer than that.”

But for as many questions he asked, the answers supplied were quite underwhelming. Types of droids, how many strong, points of origin, enemy formation… All that each man could recall with any confidence was that the opposition was large, the snow made things difficult to see, and there were probably five tanks. Chin blinked slowly at his laughable column of notes. “That’s… Great. Just great, kiddos,” he sighed, lowering his datapad. “And we’re _sure_ we didn’t see Zuthra engage in battle?”

“I found her dead,” CT-6101 reaffirmed. “I didn’t stick around.”

“Yeah I wouldn’t either…” Chin mumbled in frustration, scrolling up and down.

Just then, the cabin speakers sounded on. “Lieutenant. We’ve picked up a missile on scanners heading this way. What are your orders, sir?” The co-pilot spoke rapidly, yet remained calm and articulate.

“Tch, always something or other,” Chin complained to himself. As a precaution, the blast doors folded over the LAAT cabin’s vents, occluding the view of the far peaks below. Ominous red lights flooded the interior.

Unconsciously, CT-6114 gripped the stanchion more tightly. “Sir, why would the droids be firing at us? I thought we controlled the airspace at high altitude!” he squirmed, giving voice to his squad’s mutual unrest.

“We do, don’t sweat it.” Slinging his rifle up sideways, Chin used its extra length to press the call button attached to the back wall. “Copy that, trooper, stay the course. Just give us a side-step when it comes in close.”

CT-6101 cocked his head to the side. Dissatisfied with Chin’s low-effort response, he stepped forth to intervene. “What I think One-fourteen is saying, sir, is that we should get out of their range.”

 _Oh yeah, this kid is_ definitely _going places._ “We’re not _in_ their range. Look, we’ve got a lone homing missile on our tail in the middle of an artillery deployment from camp. Seps are looking at them, not us. They’re waitin’ for our gunnery unit to fly over the spots they can see from down there, but in the meantime, they’ll take potshots at whatever they find. That’s us—”

Without warning, the entire ship swung to port in a sharp, gymnastic arc, toppling anyone who hadn’t kept a steeled grip on their overhead supports. An ear-splitting _whoosh_ followed directly thereafter, sinking further away with each passing second.

 _“—Ugh…_ And that was our missile,” Chin finished groggily. He’d managed to avoid being thrown to the floor, but the blast gate he rammed into didn’t do much to cushion his fall. Still, his outcome was far more desirable than Starch’s and Mum’s, for their ability to stay put was compromised from the beginning. Crammed together in a jumble of plastoid and limbs, Starch groaned dimly as Mum tried to force his way out from the deep recesses of the cabin’s rear corner. It was a five-man project to reorient the two of them while the ship swayed back to position.

“Anyway,” Chin carried on, “General Vek isn’t far. Is there anything else you boys want to tell me about your trip down in the valley? Anything… Funny?”

The team’s joint effort to reposition Starch was paused as CT-6952 turned to respond. “Funny, sir?” he asked with an undercurrent of annoyance. There were several aspects of their previous mission that might qualify as exceptional, but barring those which might net them conviction in court, nothing else came to mind that they hadn’t already said.

“You know, ah…” Chin struggled to explain, wagging his datapad carelessly, “Spotty comms, mistaken intel… Things that stick out. It’s like this: the more info you’ve got, the more we’ll know going in next time.”

“None sir,” CT-6114 reported, perhaps too quickly. He suddenly felt more positive about Starch’s unfortunate state. He was, after all, the only one who seemed scrupulous enough to turn them all in.

“Hmm.” Chin devoted himself to his pad.

A recognizable feeling of descent cascaded over all of them within that same minute, coupled with a brisk deceleration. The pressure in their suits recalibrated automatically as the LAAT eased into a stable decline. The blast doors receded. Visible from the vertical windows their absence created, everyone aboard could watch the crystalline landscape draw nearer and nearer, now close enough to pick out the entourage of clones flocking within and around their encampment: the 352nd. Touching down at last, the cabin’s primary doors rolled aside.

Awaiting their arrival, standing taut and attentive to greet them, was a brown-garbed Arcona. His folded arms gleamed with layers of polished cortosis plates, regularly offset from each other to enhance flexibility without inviting the weakness of unprotected space. His flame orange eyes darted to each clone in turn as they exited their craft.

“Hey, kid,” called Chin from behind. He remained on the carrier.

As the last one to disembark, CT-6101 turned around while his squadmates walked on.

“Got a name picked out yet?”

CT-6101 didn’t know how to react. His brow knotted at the unexpected prompt. “Uh, sir?”

“Ringer,” Chin offered with a flick of his head, “Try it on for size.”

But CT-6101 continued to stare, uncomprehending.

“You know, right here,” Chin insisted further. Reaching a hand up to his face, he tapped a finger against the smooth plastoid of his helmet—right about where CT-6101 was blooming a fine circle of violet around his left eye. “Get it? …’Course, there’s also that _other_ reason, but we’ll go with the first.”

The LAAT’s doors rolled closed once again, leaving newly-named Ringer with no time to reply. He could only gape, wide-eyed and frozen in place as the carrier sailed off the ground, wondering how much Chin knew that he didn’t let on.


	5. Chapter 5

“And? Where is the 493rd?” asked the Arconian General. He peered around his freshly delivered detachment of clones; left, right, and through the spaces between them, but never seemed to fully acknowledge the five who stopped meters away from his feet.

“Sir,” CT-6952 saluted, “Reporting as ordered, sir.” Like the others, this was his first time speaking directly to a Jedi. The experience was humbling, what with the godlike portrayal of them they were shown during training, and correspondingly, it felt slightly unnerving standing so close. They all mirrored his rigid posture—save for Ringer, who’d only just finished turning away from their LAAT with much more on his mind.

A gravid silence wafted between them before Rog-Patil persisted again. “You’re- The 493rd? The survivors from the attack that killed General Zuthra?”

“Yes, sir. That’s us.”

“Well, _yes,”_ he backtracked, lifting a hand briefly from his arm to flit worriedly around his mouth, “What I meant was, where are the others?”

While Starch and Mum exchanged the same, clueless glance, Ringer felt a twinge of ire comb through his frame. Not only had they been summoned right after rescue (and just before lunch) but they apparently weren’t good enough. Was this Jedi so careless that he hadn’t even asked how many survived? CT-6114 seemed to pick up on these implications as well, for he looked down to the snow, unsure how to respond to their new General’s obvious disappointment.

“Others, sir?” Whether CT-6952 interpreted anything from General Vek’s questions, he remained outwardly militant and polite.

“This is no time for games, trooper, I sent for _everyone_ who survived that attack. Where _are_ they?”

“Sir, there must be some kind of mistake. I… Regret to report, sir, there is no one else.”

Rog-Patil arrested his fidgeting then, assuming a melancholy sort of expression as he turned to the side to contemplate his mistake. “Only… Five?” he digested slowly. More silence, finally punctuated with a conspicuous sigh, and Rog-Patil turned back to the men. “Well, you’re here now. I was hoping to bolster our numbers with this addition, but there’s nothing to be done. I’ll take you to camp.”

He didn’t wait for an answer. Unfolding his arms, he started his return toward the base of a nearby cliff. Left with no other choice, the clones congregated behind him. They said nothing all the while, unable to rectify the fact that they were, plainly, not what the General wanted, and took instead to examining their new home. The cliff’s face was angled so acutely away from its base that it constituted something of a large awning for the multitude of ships taking shelter beneath it. Entering into its shade and turning the corner revealed unto them the gargantuan, arching entrance leading into the 352nd encampment, decorated by those few spindly stalactites at the fore that hadn’t been cut down during construction.

In stark contrast to the polished geometry of the 41st, the 352nd battalion was harbored inside with all the austerity one might expect of a group of people living out of a cave. Rough and temporary structures lined each crevice available and in places ran flush with the ceiling. Fluttering tarps could be seen instead of proper walls, attached here and there to the intricate jungle of pipes supplying their hovel with heat, water, electricity, pressurized gasses—anything a makeshift military base like this would need to function fully, although perhaps not especially cleanly. Here, open space was the most precious commodity of all. In exchange for the defensive advantages granted by planting his men in a cave, General Vek suffered the problem of capacity. His solution was to simply build small and build _up,_ as high as the rock above would enable them, resulting in this tangled, stacking puzzle that nearly the whole battalion resided within. Not everyone could fit, however; the lean-to tents just outside clearly illustrated their desperate need for more spacious arrangements.

Rog-Patil led his new recruits through a series of narrow alleyways and packed thoroughfares, up and down welded ladders and across thin bridges that wobbled overtop of the compacted structures below. “This is it,” he announced at last. Their journey came to a close in the darker reaches of the cave at a miniature plaza of sorts. Only artificial lighting illuminated these depths, strapped in various shapes to the many pieces of protruding metal. “You should report to the front at twenty-one hundred hours for tonight’s mission.”

Squeezing past a stomping cargo droid that was determined to go through the exact space he occupied, Mum balked at the back of Rog-Patil’s head. “Sir- Tonight?”

Rog-Patil swung around gracefully. “Correct. Tonight we secure one of the main routes that the Separatists have been using to disperse droids from their warehouse. If we can just take that route…” he trailed, his expression morphing into one of pensive calculation, “Then I’m sure we can get a foothold in the lower mountains. And if we can do that, we can control the entire range. We’ll keep restricting the area around the warehouse until there’s nowhere left for them to go. Then?” he nodded to himself, “We strike. And Desevro is ours.”

CT-6114 tossed about the unpolished strategy in his head. Given what he’d memorized from the last holomap he saw, adding in the geography he remembered going in and out of the valley, referenced against the bird’s eye view of the local terrain he caught while riding the LAAT, and considering the Republic’s partial triangulation of the warehouse location… He wondered if that was a sound plan, at all. Rog-Patil seemed very sure, though, and aside from it being beyond CT-6114’s rank to question a General’s best-laid designs, he lacked the right data to refute him in earnest. So CT-6114 kept staring ahead, his thoughts well contained, no matter how shrewd they were.

“Get some rest while you can,” Rog-Patil finished, and bid them goodbye with a wave of his hand. He ducked under a tarp and disappeared into the maze.

Only the industrial whir of pistons and pipes kept the clones company now. CT-6952 stepped in a slow circle to comprehend their surroundings. “I’m pretty sure the General said ‘this is it,’ but… I’m not sure I know what ‘it’s’ supposed to be,” he said as he turned.

Ringer shook his head. “This place is a dump. What’s he thinking, storing troops in here?”

“Can’t say it isn’t warm enough though,” Mum replied neutrally, removing his helmet to put it to use as a fan.

“Let’s just find the quarters,” resolved Starch. “We’ve got an assignment in six hours, so _I_ suggest we do as the General says and rest up.” He lifted the tarp to his right. Finding a mass of ducts feeding into a regulator, he moved onto the next, and the next after that, conducting his search around the plaza one room at a time.

For lack of a better plan, CT-6952 joined the effort. “I’m worried we’ll have to start _now_ if we wanna make it back to the front in six hours. Never seen a place so convoluted.”

“There,” interrupted CT-6114. He raised his arm to point at a shrouded, cubical structure near the very top of the cave, some three stories high. “We can get a vantage of the camp and orient ourselves relative to the entrance.”

Craning to follow his line of sight, Ringer gave him a nudge. “Not bad, One-fourteen. Here. I’ll give you a boost.”

Free-climbing the primitive architecture of the 352nd was surprisingly straightforward, made easy by the plethora of open walled frames and jutting bars that were exposed from each building’s foundation. Encouragingly, though the whole camp resembled a grand-scale, abandoned construction project, the metal beams held firm as all five clones navigated an upward path to the summit. Standing now inside the small room resting on top, CT-6952 held the beige tarp aloft as Ringer facilitated the last man climbing in.

The room was barely five meters across. It was large enough to contain the loose heap of crates that consumed most of the space, but at the same time, it was too small to comfortably contain five men. Considering the bare-bones nature of the engineering here, however, everyone was perfectly content with the simple fact that the floor didn’t give way underneath their combined weight. Peering out from the tarp opposite from the one they all entered through, CT-6114 was granted a magnificent view of the encampment in full: a skyline of mineral greys and browns, shimmering in its infinite complexity from the rare rays of sun that trickled in from the snow fields outside.

“Looks like we’re pretty far in,” he surmised for the group. Had he some better equipment, CT-6114 would’ve relished the opportunity to scan the terrain from a vantage like this, generating for his reference a detailed map within seconds. “We’ll want to keep north when we head out of here. If we come to a cross, we go east.”

“Tell me,” Ringer chimed in with a sarcastic tone, “How many other bases in the Republic d’you think we’ll be treating like uncharted territory?”

“Shut yer trap, Oh-one,” admonished Starch. The climb—indeed multiple events since his visit to the 41st medical branch—had not been gentle to his injured side. The moment he reached the small storage room, he plopped himself against one distressed, Republic-red shipping crate.

“It’s ah, it’s Ringer now, I guess,” Ringer hesitantly corrected him. “Lieutenant Snipes-a-lot in the 41st gave it to me last-minute.”

Starch chortled, gripping his side to stave off the pain. “Ringer! Aw that’s rich. Looks like you won’t be getting off the hook after all, _Ringer.”_

“Yeah, yeah. You’re lucky you came with a name, ‘cause I’d have more than a few picked out for you by now.”

 _“Hey.”_ Leaning into his role as arbiter, CT-6952 ended their bickering at the first sign of sparks with an attention-gathering bang of his fist against the top crate. “Lock it down, you two. Last time got us kicked outta the mess hall. If I have to put up with any more of your crud, _I’ll_ be the one throwing you out.” The threat was made substantially more impactful by the frightening realization they were three stories above ground.

“On… _That_ note,” Mum intervened, “We should go ahead and get back to the bottom.”

Starch frowned at the thought. “Ugh, gimme a break. It was hard enough gettin’ _up_ here.”

“For once, I agree with Starch,” supported Ringer. Setting aside their old Captain’s helmet, he eased himself onto the ribbed metal floor. “Feels like a year’s gone by since this morning. I could take a nap here no problem.”

“You’re serious?” The prospect of accidentally rolling over in his sleep was too much for Mum, who couldn’t stop looking out of the room and far down below.

CT-6114 sat down cross-legged. “I guess it’s as good a place as any. Judging by the tents out front, who’s to say there’s even a bed left for us, anyway?”

“Wait now,” countered Mum, “General Vek is the one who asked for us, right? So I’m sure there’s a spot; we’ll just have to keep looking.”

At this point, it was a matter of course that _someone_ would deflate Mum’s too-hopeful commentary. But this time, the air rang vacant for longer than usual. Even the most loyal of their group couldn’t avoid picking up on Rog-Patil’s distaste. Considering their situation, it was entirely reasonable to believe they’d been left to fend for themselves.

“I get the feeling General Vek doesn’t give two squirts’a piss about us,” Ringer supposed, lying still on his back.

CT-6114 didn’t object, per se, but remained less overtly critical. “That’s a bit harsh. I’m sure he didn’t mean it.”

“We’re five guys, we’re unranked, he was expecting an army,” Starch rationalized, “Who wouldn’t be disappointed?”

“Well, we might not look like much,” premised Mum, “But come tonight, we’ll show him we’re just as good anyone else!”

Settling for the storage room as well, CT-6952 made himself at home wedged between a couple crates. It was marginally shadier in there, all the better to summon some sleep, and eliminated the risk of falling. “He’s the boss. If that’s how he feels, then he’s right to feel that way,” CT-6952 dismissed, curling onto his side.

“I dunno about that,” Ringer contended softly, then raised his voice louder. “I think somebody should’ve _questioned_ him whenever it was he decided to build this karking mess,” he criticized with a vague sweep before dropping his arm back down to his abdomen.

“It _is_ kinda… Different, from the 41st, can’t deny that,” contributed CT-6114.

“Don’t forget that Unduli kicked us out in the blink of an eye, though.”

 _“This_ again,” Starch moaned. Taking one cautious glance at the dormant legs of CT-6952 sticking out from the crates, he guessed he’d have a few seconds to evade him if he really did follow through on his threats. “One bad day and you’re talking like a dissenter.”

Ringer stared hard at the wavy tarp ceiling. “One bad day, and we’ve seen a lot of those great things we heard about Jedi proven wrong. They’re just people, Starch. Older than us, maybe, fancy psychic powers and all, but they bleed the same, make mistakes like the rest of us. Zuthra died just like Jade company. Just like Gil. Rank didn’t protect them from squat.”

“You’re a real piece’a work, you know that?” Starch chided flatly, sitting up a bit taller, “You think you know _all_ about what goes into rank. How many battles’ve you fought, huh? Gone through some Jedi training yourself?”

“Uh- Starch,” Mum stammered in warning, keeping one eye on CT-6952.

“I just don’t wanna get into another situation where I’m waiting for the higher-ups to make things all right,” justified Ringer. “Hundreds of our brothers died in that valley today because _I waited._ I was _sure_ that consulting command was the right thing to do. But if I just acted _sooner,_ called retreat _earlier…”_

It was in those sentences that Starch finally understood the truth of Ringer’s constant disdain for command. The realization didn’t mend their antagonism entirely, but Starch felt the sting of animosity die down to a smolder in his chest, watching his brother don the full weight of responsibility for this morning’s attack.

“But no,” Ringer continued, “I waited. I wanted to go get the General, first. So in _all that time_ I wasted lookin’ around for her, waiting for orders, more of our men could’ve escaped.”

CT-6114 opened his mouth to respond, but to his surprise, Starch beat him to it:

“That isn’t your fault, Rings,” he said soberly.

“Then whose is it, Starch? Zuthra’s? The Captain’s? For gulpin’ the laser when they shoulda been better than that? Listen,” he prompted, reorienting himself onto his side, “I don’t blame them for not being invincible. I blame myself for believing they were. To hell with rank, I had a choice and I blew it. I won’t make that mistake again.”


	6. Chapter 6

Nighttime descended over the Nasguin mountains, heralding the revival of countless colorful beacons that filled the chasms below. At the mouth of the cave, mystical blotches of orange filtered down from above. They bled through the 352nd’s formation, faintly illuminating the armor of over a hundred men who were gathered here in the snow, spaced in perfect formation and holding fast against the increasing cold. They awaited their General’s orders with patience. Like his squadmates scattered elsewhere within the group, CT-6114 was surrounded by unfamiliar men. One long cut in his armor differentiated him from the rest. They anticipated they might lose track of each other in the forthcoming expedition, and in response, each former member of the 493rd took his turn last night carving the mark into his armor horizontally across the chest. It was crude and undignified to purposefully deface one’s kit like this, but time was short, options were limited, and it was eventually decided that sticking together took priority over remaining pristine. Ultimately the effort was futile anyway, since their handiwork was all but invisible under the weak light of the beacons. The only one of their group who remained reasonably identifiable was Ringer, owing to his mauve-patterned helmet. Unwilling to discard their Captain’s memento and equally unwilling to juggle a second helmet along with his rifle, he relented to the name he was given and wore the piece as his own. There were more than a few befuddled stares at its unique coloration, although no one was about to try starting conversation with Rog-Patil pacing his way to the front.

“Attention,” he commanded. His tone was soft, while his posture was anything but. Dark robes billowed from the silhouette of his unchanging form over the backdrop of wintery slopes. He waited for the company’s residual commotion to die down before continuing his speech. “This mission is of _utmost_ importance in the Republic’s campaign to achieve victory on Desevro, and as such, I require nothing less than your best.”

The ensuing pause prompted the troops to respond in their practiced, uniform, “Sir, yes sir!” though Mum missed the cue in his ongoing search for the rest of his squad.

“The plan is this,” Rog-Patil resumed, gesturing to the far-reaching wastes behind him, “We march to the Chentuu Pass while keeping a low profile. The droids have been using it to send armaments to other parts of the lower reaches, which has prevented us from gaining control of that region. So, we’ll make our way through the Chentuu Pass slowly, under the cover of darkness, and take out their sentries when they’re least expecting us.” He retracted his hands then into his sleeves, doubtlessly pestered by the plummeting temperatures, though the act suggested refinement and courtesy. “Once secure, I’ll call in additional troops to set up a satellite base there and prevent the enemy’s use of the route going forward. Do you understand?”

This time, Mum didn’t miss the call. As the 352nd troopers declared their allegiance with taut salutes all around, Rog-Patil turned to face the steep, icy banks. He walked. His shape melded into the night the further he went, but before he disappeared completely, a clone at the head of the formation waved his arm in a tall, authoritative circle. It signaled the formation to march in pursuit. And without hesitation, they did.

The uncharted path to the Pass was riddled with dangers. Down treacherous cliffs they descended onto sheerly slanted ground, stepping on slippery footholds that threatened to drop them into oblivion at any wrong move. It was painfully slow, painfully nerve-wracking work. And without the sunlight to illuminate their way, clones without a headlamp were left to grope for stable surfaces within an arm’s reach. Much of the time the only thing they knew for certain was the short length of cable they gripped in both hands. They shuffled and divided to move around obstacles, reformed to a crowd whenever the path narrowed into a bottleneck, and altogether retained none of their original formation by the time they drew close to their goal. If anyone from the 493rd knew where his fellows were at the onset of this excursion, he had no way of tracking them by the end of it. 

The final gully they sidled through spat them out at the back of a howling tundra layered in a film of brittle, brown grass. The snow was thinner here, piling up in long, white brushstrokes along the western sides of large rocks, but was sparsely distributed across the land itself. They thus marched on in relative ease, grateful that their tired legs could now move without hindrance. Shriveled vegetation crunched like glass underneath their soles as they came to a gradual stop at their destination: the towering inlet of Chentuu Pass.

A solid wall loomed before them at the end of the barren field, stretching high enough to force anyone who wanted to appreciate its height to crane his neck backwards. At its center, one long, lightning bolt-shaped rift divided the entire slate down the middle. Perhaps four men could walk abreast at its entrance—five or six, if they didn’t mind scraping the walls and each other. No words were exchanged from their General. He perched furtively next to the gap while his second-in-command signaled the march to a halt. For several seconds, the mission lagged on in silence as Rog-Patil stretched himself outward, probing ahead as far as he could with the eyes of the Force. Then, sensing no imminent danger, he beckoned the group forth with a flick of his hand. The Pass consumed them in total darkness.

Marching between the walls of the Pass was strangely unsettling. The scream of the winds was absent inside, giving way to a flat, insulated noise of every man’s gear as they all paced along. Everyone relied on those few men with headlamps whose dim beams moved inconsistently from the ground to the walls, roving over the backs of their fellows, never staying put for too long. The walls rose above for what seemed like forever. Something about their ubiquitous presence put CT-6114 on edge. He’d objected to this plan from the start, but whereas back in the cave he scented its flaws based on data, even his instincts protested it now. Ringer’s words wouldn’t stop plaguing his mind: waiting around could get people killed. Command was not infallible. And so, plucking up his bravery and shoving down his nerves, he butted his way to the front.

Rog-Patil may have been smaller than him, but that didn’t diminish the trepidation CT-6114 felt as he approached his cloaked back. “Sir,” he began quietly, thinking at lightspeed to come up with a way to politely and respectfully contradict the General’s plans.

“What is it, trooper?” Rog-Patil regarded without turning back.

“With all due respect, sir, I feel it is… Important, that we consider the fact the enemy could appear at any time along the rim of this trench. The further we go in, the harder it is to retreat, sir.”

A flicker of fond amusement sparked in Rog-Patil’s demeanor. “Calm down, there’s no need to panic. I’ve brought enough men to cover a retreat if necessary. If an attack comes from above, we have rocket launchers to retaliate. You should also have observed coming in that the enemy has no presence behind us, meaning our way out is clear.”

But CT-6114 was unconvinced. He saw the parallels to his mission this morning. Two hundred men and a clear route back didn’t change things at all. If anything, their numbers were fewer now than they were in the valley, and their exit was much smaller. “Yes sir,” he nodded tersely, “I understand. But if I may, sir, it is highly probable that the enemy will ambush us before we locate their sentries. I recommend we send scouts before moving further.” Better yet, CT-6114 might have suggested a preliminary airstrike to provoke the enemy into revealing their position. The latter idea was too synonymous with him stating that he disagreed with the operation in full, however, so he kept his proposal small and went with the more conservative suggestion.

He was glad that he did.

“Trooper, your input is appreciated but I have things under control,” Rog-Patil snapped. The amusement he’d harbored earlier was replaced with a mild annoyance, glancing in CT-6114’s direction once before turning his gaze back ahead. “There is no use in provoking the enemy _before we arrive,_ because that defeats the point of the mission. Our chances of success drop considerably if the droids are alerted to our presence.”

 _They’ll drop a lot more if we’re caught unaware,_ CT-6114 wanted to say. He hadn’t yet gone so far as to adopt Ringer’s more public brand of resistance, though, so he carefully reevaluated the General’s plan, making sure he wasn’t mistaken, and continued to embellish his words. “I’m aware of the risks, sir, but realistically speaking, I don’t think we can expect to maneuver our entire unit into an optimal attacking position before we’re discovered. The enemy has superior vantage over this area. If we at least know their position, we can set up a defensive formation when we get to that point.”

Rog-Patil, having agonized over this plan for more than a week leading up to its implementation, was clearly tired of listening to one nitpicky clone who picked it up only hours ago. “Sitting down and setting up a defensive formation would reduce our agility, private, which, I stress, is paramount to this mission’s success. We must be able to react _quickly_ with _all arms_ when we encounter the sentry, but I thank you for your diligence and scrutiny nonetheless. You are dismissed.”

CT-6114 wouldn’t have said more even without the order to fall back in line. He knew a failed attempt when he saw one, and slowed his pace voluntarily until he was subsumed in the faceless troops marching behind. Unlike Ringer, his own little act of defiance would save no lives today. He thus elected to place what was left of his faith in the foresight of Rog-Patil, but somehow, CT-6114 found his heart wasn’t in it.

No sooner than he stepped in with the rest of the clones, the desiccated air crackled with the whip-like sound of electricity. Blasters raised in a clatter of alarm. Rog-Patil’s captain began to speak then, but each man was suddenly blinded by a shower of bright, purple streaks flashing over the 352nd formation. They soared back, coalescing just meters behind the last row of troops, weaving themselves into a monolith of electrical netting stretched tall and wide to cut everyone off from behind. So surprised were they that no one could hear the droids creeping down from above. Then again, they didn’t need to—the first torrent of plasma from the incoming spider droids scattered their first four ranks into the others beyond.

Atomized rock swelled in from all sides. Sentry droids aiming down from up high fired beams into clone after clone, imperviously shielded by their distance as well as the heavy artillery climbing down to the bottom. With nowhere to run, troops leapt to the walls to evade their relentless cannon blasts whose massive size consumed the full width of the Pass. Rocks shaken loose from the walls fell into craterous pits, trapping or killing anyone unfortunate enough to have fallen inside.

Rog-Patil, at the very least, had the Force on his side. At the first hail of plasma he jumped, bounding off the neighboring wall and onto a spider droid crawling its way to his men. It roared in a deep, malfunctioning stutter with his lightsaber embedded into its side, then crashed to the ground as he sprung his way to the next. This was _not_ part of his plan; all he could do was react. Those ten or twelve troopers beneath him were lucky enough to dive to safety before the droid’s carcass fell. Under the direction of their Captain, they launched themselves forward instead of back, when the ambush began, placing themselves just underneath the descending line of the enemy. It was a perilous place to fight, but in doing so they avoided the deathtrap squeeze their enemy had created by pinning the rest of their numbers against the electrical wall.

Deafening booms of fire rendered anyone’s hearing naught but a constant and high-pitched ting. While his troops retaliated from the dusty and unseeable chaos they were stranded inside, Rog-Patil bounced ever higher with each piece of artillery he killed. Some droids were mere carriers. Whether he sliced them or not, he couldn’t prevent them from dropping their cargo to the depths of the Pass. Large, plasteel encasements hit the ground like mortars and popped open on contact. They released unto his troops a new threat of unfolding B1s. The tide of the battle was tight in the hands of the Separatists here, but what he saw at the crest of the Pass solidified his fears in full:

The measureless plateau above, in which Chentuu Pass rendered in two, was coming alive with a full army of droids.

Out from the snow they drew to full height. Troops, tanks, and complete infrastructure to watch over the pass, all it took was a signal from those few commandos on guard to activate the area’s long-standing defenses. Not only had Rog-Patil underestimated the Separatist fortifications, he underestimated that clone. Flipping to his feet at the height of the pass, he watched their progression with awe, petering out in a profound sense of regret. Troves of spider and carrier droids marched into the gap. Those few he destroyed on his path upward were meaningless in the face of all this. What else could he be expected to do? Having just one other campaign under his belt, Rog-Patil was determined to impress the Jedi Council. He planned this mission down to its very last detail, but in doing so, he lost his capacity for flexibility. It wasn’t just him who would pay for such a mistake—it was his men stuck below.

Ringer couldn’t feel his right arm. Couldn’t hear his comrades’ screaming, nor see anything but dirt in spite of his helmet’s infrared capabilities that he didn’t know how to use. He couldn’t even feel his bumbling legs as they carried him _somewhere,_ though he _was_ sure they moved, and that was enough for him. The crunch of his armor was the first sign he fell. One moment the ground was right there as expected, the next one it wasn’t, and so Ringer toppled into a steaming crater with no more than a startled yelp. He didn’t have time to probe whether the brothers he fell onto were dead, let alone to gauge his own pain. Upon their unmoving bodies he sprang, clawing viciously at the crumbling soil to surmount this deadly pit before he was buried alive. Nothing but will carried him up to its precipice. His uncooperative arm wouldn’t pull him all the way out though, and so viewing the battle from there, he witnessed the vivid scene of blue and red lasers flying back and forth through the dust. To his left, a red one met its mark. The blur of white armor whooshed by his side and plunged into the pit. A terrible shock rent the earth after that, blowing shards from the wall down onto the field. At some point, a throng of B1s had entered the fray. On their own they’d have been nothing important, but after the bloody descent of the spider droids’ wave, they capitalized on the clones’ disarray and swept them aside with no resistance at all.

Cradling one functioning arm, Ringer couldn’t hope to take out a cannon, but as he slung himself onto flatter ground he vowed to slaughter as many of those twiggy bastards as came in line with his gun. …Even if it meant staring down the barrels of the pack of B1s marching his way.

The rightmost B1 flailed helplessly with a pistol shot to its cheek. The other three watched it go down in a sick sort of apathy, confusedly tracing its cause of death to the injured clone lying just meters away. The next one in line got a shot to the neck. The remaining two raised their blasters to aim. One final try would be all Ringer could muster before the remaining droid fired, and barring the off-chance that the droid happened to miss, this moment was the last that Ringer would see.

His finger retracted—the laser shot out.

Both droids were gone in a blink.

Ringer couldn’t comprehend the speed at which the event took place to spare his life, but in the instant he fired, a fulgent blue beam cleaved the B1s in two. That very same motion, sailing up in a split-second arc, captured the shot thrown from Ringer and re-directed it into the back of a B1 standing ready to shoot over ten meters away through the turbid murk in the air. All of this—the death of three droids—was too much to process in the span of one second. All Ringer remembered clearly was the flutter of a long cape through the haze, shadowed in the foreground of the glint of a lightsaber.


	7. Chapter 7

Obi-Wan moved through the thick of battle with supernatural speed.

The narrow space between walls proved no hindrance to him, serving instead to assist him in jumping from one place to the next, severing scores of Separatist battle droids in the time it took him to land on the opposite side. Every motion, every intent was filtered through the clairvoyant lens of the Force as he executed turn after turn, sundering a continuous stream of cold metal from the enemy’s side. All the while he did not blink. The battlefield may have been blind in its dense coating of brown, but it was not sight that guided Obi-Wan’s blade.

He breathed in the surrounding darkness. The battlefield swam between present and future. Possessed in a sheathe of primal divinity, his toes touched the ground only seconds at a time. The towering array of cannon-wielding spider droids was subdued in mere moments, freezing where they were on the interior walls, shuttering to a stop as each of their molten scars took effect and blew them to inoperability. Obi-Wan ascended his assault into the fray brewing atop the Chentuu Plateau while his disciples cabled down to the Pass.

In perfect harmony they reached the ground and unlatched, assuming coordinated formation and swarming the area at once. Fifty separate beams of light pierced the field from each trooper’s helmet. Any droid that their General hadn’t dispatched was destroyed then and there. They fanned out on signal from one clone in front, whose nearest entourage stayed behind to pick off any sneaking commando droids hoping to snipe the group from above. A search and rescue operation was already underway.

Still coming down from his timely relief, Ringer was suddenly scooped to his feet, settled kindly against a low-angled rock, and treated swiftly for wounds he didn’t realize he had. The medics (medics?) who surrounded him then were mostly uncommunicative. Garbed in thermal gear and scuffed yellow paint, they were silent even to one another. They didn’t require words to collaborate in flawless union.

Then, peering through the dirty fog as it started to clear, Ringer discovered the ringmaster of his new unit’s sudden salvation, standing amid a pile of crumbling droids, pointing about with authority atop the smoldering hull of a dwarf spider’s turret.

“You three, get that barrier offline _double time,”_ Cody dictated with a severe jerk of his hand.

Soon thereafter, the electrical cage was offline. Ringer’s head swam as he tried to sit up.

“Get- _Stop-”_ he protested weakly. Although his hearing was damaged, the barrage of explosions was still readily visible from atop the Pass.

He felt himself fall. Two pairs of hands held him roughly against the rock. Leaning here outside his control, he was just able to spot an incoming projectile racing down from the sky. Small, at first, then barreling into the ground the next instant, smashing the loose dirt with a magnificent _thud_ and a well-contained splash of debris. A figure with his back turned rose up from its hazy center, cloak flowing out behind him without hint of injury. Correspondingly, Commander Cody looked down without hint of surprise. Ringer couldn’t see more than that, but as his vision faded to black, two voices shared the stage:

“Sir. We’ll have to get out of here before reinforcements fly in from the base.”

“We’re behind schedule already. Have Mackenzie circle around with the speeders to pick up the injured at ground level, then meet the rest of us traveling on foot.”

“Should I call off evac in the meantime, sir? Don’t want our larties going up against a frigate if they arrive at the same time.”

“Hmm. I worry that a few of our more critically injured can’t wait for further delay. Keep the LAATs on course, but have them ready to pull out in the event we have company. And Cody, while you’re at it, tell our fighter pilots to prepare to deploy.”

“I’m on it, sir,” and then, after a meaningful pause, “Prepping the gunships to jump at General Kenobi’s whim.”

\- - -

Gentle flecks of ice pricked the skin on Ringer’s face, waking him softly to the rumbling sounds of some hundred pairs of boots trudging their way through the snow.

The sky was as dark as he remembered. The night air was cool and now free of dust, enabling him to breathe deeply, as though his lungs were still stale with the blood and dust saturated inside Chentuu Pass. While his sight cleared to normal acuity, the full portrait of stars came into focus. Pink and green planets glimmered from lightyears away amid a network of stars, unhampered by artificial interference. He felt himself jostling, though none of his limbs moved.

“Rings? You awake now?” he heard from his left. Lolling his head to one side, he caught glimpse of clone armor. A plastoid arm stretched out over his view. “It’s me,” the voice said, “Six one-one-four. You’re gonna be okay.”

 _Thanks,_ he felt himself mumble. Whether the word made it out from his mouth was a different matter entirely. Slowly regaining the faculty to notice, Ringer saw that the rest of his body was laid flat on a gurney. A pair of sharply focused, yellow-marked clones were attending both sides. In fact, as he swiveled his head each direction, he found that the majority of this marching formation maintained the same coloration, as well as the same look: Stalwart. Untouchable. Steadfast, and singular in his devotion to the goalpost ahead. Never had Ringer felt so apart from a group of clones like himself. They carried themselves with unwavering purpose. A certain sense of religiousness permeated their ranks, to which Ringer felt totally foreign. Truly these men walked upon some other plane, layers beyond what he thought it meant to be a mere soldier.

As one, the group came to a stop.

“I sense… A disturbance in the Force,” came the echo of a faint Coruscanti accent from the front.

CT-6114 clutched his blaster at the ready to shoot. Ringer watched him position his finger over the safety lock, but before long, an announcement stole his attention.

“Change of plans, men,” Cody broadcasted over them all. … _The_ Commander Cody, Ringer finally began to comprehend, though he still couldn’t see him too well. “The droids have our scent. We’ll break course and bunker down in the waypoint at sector eight-nine until our fighters can clear the way for evac. No slacking. Let’s _move!”_

Just as quickly as they stopped, the group hastened a hard turn to the west. Two landspeeders pivoted around the formation and disappeared back into the crowd. Gurney attendants sped off at an abrupt jog, compelling Ringer to heave himself upright. Only one of his arms moved to cooperate.

“What’s- _Fourteen!”_ he called out on instinct, “What happened? Where are we?!”

Inadvertently slipping his way to the side, the gurney’s elastic canvas threw him abroad. He was barely spared from planting his face in the snow by the arms of his squadmate, who shouldered the most of his weight, limping side-to-side rather clumsily until Ringer had both of his feet rooted firmly on ground.

 _“Get going,”_ came the most growling, intimidating version of his voice he’d ever heard to date. An accompanying shoulder rammed into his back without reserve. The discourteous clone decked in marred yellow crosshatch was patently unwilling to entertain Ringer’s lightheadedness, and forcibly assured that he maintained pace with the group as they came to a steep drop in their path.

Ringer turned to 6114. CT-6114 didn’t look back, instead staring down the sheer slope ahead. Words were volleyed back and forth further up in the pack, but neither man caught the subject discussed. Eventually, by observation alone, it became obvious they were intended to jump. The row at the fore stowed their guns with a _click_ and hopped to their doom without question. Before they knew it, it was their turn, too.

“Grab on, kid,” offered the gurney-bearer in front. His partner behind retracted the stretcher into a portable, hand-held device, snapping it onto his back.

Looking between him and Ringer, CT-6114 couldn’t very well distinguish who the helping hand was intended for.

“Uh- Did you mean,” he began to ask, when everyone else in his row slid right down the rock.

The hand flexed its fingers impatiently. Even the speeders were inching their way off the edge.

Wavering in apprehension, Ringer leaned over the slope. “Wait, wait wait wait—that’s either a ninety degree drop or close to it, what in ten hells are we _doing?!”_

Cables weren’t set and a route wasn’t planned. Troopers just _dropped_ without heed for the consequences, not even bothering to take hold of the wall half the time. Granted, Ringer hadn’t watched long enough to see their demise, but the whole arrangement reeked of hazardous improvisation, and he was _finished_ going along with bad ideas today.

Sadly for him, the cross-hatched clone was finished tolerating his hesitance. The very next instant, CT-6114 was kicked off the ledge, flailing and screaming the entire way down, and Ringer was captured during his gasp of alarm. Unbreakable arms swept him clean off his feet. Snug and secure in the other clone’s grip, the two of them vaulted into the air, nothing but limitless canyon beneath them, and plummeted straightaway.

Ringer’s fingernails stabbed into his shoulder. He jerked helplessly to break free, loosing a scream of his own as the craggy turf drew too close for comfort. He expected to rebound and crash, bracing himself for the grisly impact, but his brazen abductor had other plans. The soles of his boots claimed the ground with a vengeance. He refused to bounce even once, leaning into the slope as he promptly slid down at incredible speed.

Several tens of meters below, a gathering of clones watched the daring, downhill performance.

“That’s one way to do it,” commented a diamond-patterned clone named Ghost as he brushed himself off. “Snap never did have the patience for second guesses.”

Supervising nearby, Cody’s palm met his face with a sigh. “I just wish we could get ’im to stop bullying the little’uns…”

“And I wouldn’t mind if you’d consider being a bit more _quiet,”_ grunted Obi-Wan, sporting a supreme look of concentration under his hood to Cody’s immediate right. Arms stretched in front, he maneuvered dozens of men at a time in midair, ensuring that nobody’s trust was misplaced.

As a result, CT-6114 came to a stop far below in a much friendlier way than he imagined, settling onto the snow like a mattress rather than the feeling of brick that his muscles were prepared for. Knees shaking, he found his precarious balance around the same time that Ringer joined him down at the bottom with the last of the others.

A flurry of gravel sprayed CT-6114 in greeting. The extreme angle that Snap’s crouching posture adopted at the very last second prevented him from flying forward at the end of the slope, but it also left CT-6114 filthy, shaking grit and pebbles out from his helmet’s vents.

“You blasted _idiot,”_ fumed Ringer, “Get yer hands off me!”

But Snap paid him no mind. Rising back to full height, he lifted his gaze up to the sky where a small flock of shadows could be seen in the distance, occluding the stars, lurking forth at a smooth, unchanging rate. They were heading straight for their group. “Commander,” he called out firmly.

Cody was staring the same way. Tapping a series of buttons inlaid to the side of his helmet, the black of his visor flashed white, and then green. He flicked through the last setting and turned to his side. “Sir. Enemy reinforcements inbound. Three HMPs and a light cruiser. We’ll enter their range in six minutes.”

Obi-Wan shook out his hands. “Then we’ve no time to lose.”

Following a single motion from Cody the group dashed away like their lives were at stake. In a very real sense, they were. The two speeders tore off from the rest. Between the commotion and the wash of snow being kicked up by everyone’s boots, CT-6114 could just barely spot their intended destination. From afar one might mistake the grey, monolithic collection of spires as some sort of oddly placed rock formation, but after continued inspection, there could be no doubt that those shapes were buildings—the unlit remnants of a city fallen to ruin.


	8. Chapter 8

A pair of long-since unmanned toll booths rattled fiercely as two landspeeders whipped between them at top speed and smashed through their gates. They kept pace alongside one another just meters apart, hurtling down a long, flat section of fissured ground that was once the city’s main highway. Disused runway lamps flanked them the entire way in; some of them even still flickered. Not wanting to keep the others waiting back in the field, Mackenzie pulled one hand from his speeder controls to locate a dropoff point preemptively. He scrolled his helmet’s magnification to max. The options presented in the resulting grid on the horizon were frustratingly few. Most buildings were missing windows, rooftops or whole sections off their sides, and none of them looked particularly ready to withstand the possibility of a Separatist air raid. Still, the wounded men in his care had to go somewhere, and so choosing one of the more structurally complete buildings close to the front, he sent its coordinates to the partnering speeder.

The first indication Mum had that any of this was going on was when he was briskly loaded off the back. Bleary grey walls began to sharpen to focus, saturated in moonlight from the array of broken windows all around. To his right, a tidy row of unmoving brothers positioned just like himself. To his left, the next one in line was laid down. The only source of noise in the room came from the doorless entrance nearby, where four clones in odd yellow markings worked tirelessly to shuttle man after man from speeders outside. In his confusion, Mum tried to sit up. The searing pain that shot through his chest just then had him fighting to remain conscious, airway constricting, succumbing to the irregular flashes that took over his vision. But before he could choke, there was a hand at his neck. The hypospray diffused through his blood in short order, rapidly numbing his full-body pain to the point he could breathe once again.

“Y’good? Can you breathe?” he heard indistinctly. Responding was still out of his current ability, but thankfully, breathing was something he could accomplish.

Mackenzie understood. Hoisting Mum to sit up against the wall, he gave his helmet a pat and rose up. “Sit tight. And don’t even _think_ about takin’ that helmet off, you hear me?” he pointed threateningly as he walked backwards to the speeder. “I know it feels cramped in there, but any sudden change in temperature or pressure might send ya back into shock. I’m _watching_ you.”

Mum caught about half of the warning. More focused was he on the unfamiliar… everything, about the new setting, not least of all the abundance of bloody, gruesome injuries spread about these men. Others were waking up in similar states of alarm. Two more clones in yellow darted between them like overworked hospital staff. It soon dawned upon him that this was some sort of provisional refuge for casualties—of which he was counted among them.

When the last victim was loaded onto the ground, Mackenzie gave the room a last glance. “Peeler, Brass, good work. You two stick around here to keep an eye on the wounded,” he dictated. Both medics sent back a nod where they knelt by their patients, signaling Mackenzie to make his way back outside.

“Uh- Wait!” Mum cried over the swell of the speeders’ ignition.

Impatiently, Mackenzie peered back. “…Yes? I’ll give you five seconds. And don’t you get up.”

Mum hated time limits. It didn’t help that he hadn’t really thought out what he wanted to ask, but pushing himself to use the seconds allotted, he said what first came to mind.

“R-Right. D’you know if- whether my squad made it out? Uh,” he paused, realizing the question made zero sense, “We’ve all got this cut, see, right here-”

He put a hand to his chest to indicate, only for the fingers to come away stained with blood. Startled, Mum turned his head down. He froze there immediately. A blackened, jagged breach in his chestplate sprawled across its full length, centered just over his heart and packed in sheets of red-stained gauze over strips of precious bacta. He forgot the rest of his question.

Mackenzie did not appreciate the delay, though he wasn’t cruel enough to poke fun at someone who wasn’t expecting to see his own chest halfway carved out. “I’m sorry son,” he confessed with a sigh, “I don’t know anything about your squad. We’ll get this mess sorted out back at camp, but right now, we’ve gotta make sure there’s people left alive to sort.” And with that, he hopped into the speeder outside.

The low, explosive sound of laser cannons echoed into the city with tremors powerful enough to vibrate the remaining glass in the window frames. Several men scrambled up on their elbows from their place in the row. Situated inside his speeder, Mackenzie leaned over the windshield. Peeler and Brass whipped their heads too in the same direction as everyone else stuck inside: the patchy windows facing east. Far in the distance, obscured by a white veil of snow, the colossal silhouette of a Separatist cruiser rained great bolts of plasma down into the field. A minor swarm of three smaller ships orbited the periphery, adding more red to the scene in irregular spurts.

“Ahh kriff,” Mackenzie cursed, plopping back in his seat and suddenly boosting his craft out of sight. The second speeder was not far behind. Their destination would carry them into the storm, where hundreds of men ran like mad from beams crashing down larger than houses.

The wind whipped past his armor, and Mackenzie felt his teeth grind at the sight of the one-sided carnage he raced to go join. _“Mackenzie!”_ his name came growling in through his comm. _“Answer me,_ you fragging _dimwit!”_ Shuddering a bit from the noise, and partly expecting the insult, Mackenzie clapped his helmet online. “Sir! Just finished unloading the wounded and heading your way.”

Kilometers apart, Cody sprinted alongside their General with all the urgency and stamina his legs would afford. “Get your arse over here ASAP or I’ll rip you a _new one,”_ he warned. Judging that taken care of, he flipped the comm channel to the next group that was late. “Fighter squad Mesa, _do you copy?!”_ he raged with equal intensity.

While Cody handled the next phase of this terrible situation, Obi-Wan confronted the immediate threat. He gathered the hilt from his belt and drew his wrist up to his mouth.

“Everyone! Form squads of ten and disperse!”

The order came just in time. No sooner than the stampeding company broke apart, one massive column of red pierced into the heart of their lines. It burst in an ear-shattering _boom,_ throwing blankets of snow in every direction, shooting out fragments of rock that sang like bullets whizzing past.

One such piece sailed on a lightning path ending in CT-6114. Gasping for air as his muscles protested this adrenaline-fueled, spartan-esque sprint, he had no time to notice the projectile before it cracked into pieces upon the rear of his shoulder, eliciting a pained grunt and slowing his pace. The rest of his small group of eight didn’t stop on their dash to the south, but in the very least, Snap offered some form of encouragement:

“For the love of- _Come on,_ shiny, got a rock in yer shoe?!”

 _More like a dislocated shoulder,_ he grumbled internally. Even if he wanted to talk back, his stuttering lungs wouldn’t let him.

“Don’t let up, Fourteen!” Ringer adjoined. Of course, _he_ felt none of this pain, stowed securely with Snap, so while his version of encouragement was notably kinder, it was also notably hypocritical. Aside from either of them, the best motivation CT-6114 had to catch up was the pool-sized depression left not far away by the cruiser looming above.

Its deep shadow eclipsed the total unit. HMP gunships swept low to the ground to get better aim, pocking red pits in the snow, but often missing their targets by hairs when the squads dove to the side at the last possible second. It was during one of these deadly sweeps that Obi-Wan jumped. Troopers behind saw a lightsaber ignite, and then disappear, leaving Cody alone at the head of the company while their General rocketed by as an accessory to the ship’s ventral turret.

A new set of explosions was added on top of the sustained cannon fire.

“’S that-” wheezed CT-6114, now barely in line with the rest of his squad, “-Your Jedi?”

“Nah,” scolded Snap. He was perturbed neither by the constant running, nor Ringer’s weight. “We give the glow sticks to our _service droids.”_

“Can’t you just- Answer a damn question?!”

CT-6114 wasn’t allowed to pay for his boldness then, when his entire squad stopped on a dime.

 _“Fourteen!”_ he heard Ringer shout. The wide open space in front of them was abruptly devoured in nothing but red, lashings of intense heat scoring over their armor and eaten away by a hailstorm of displaced ice and dirt. CT-6114 would have barreled straight into the beam. Instead, he fumbled face-first into the snow, legs tripped underneath him by Snap’s timely shin.

“Get up! Get up!”

All of that, and still he was ripped to his feet and told to keep moving. He didn’t know that he _could._ It wasn’t out of the question that he might pass out, no matter how many hands were prodding him forward.

By the grace of the Force, the sheen of a landspeeder flashed by.

“Not a second too soon,” Ringer sighed. Rapping his knuckles once on Snap’s badly scarred plate, he succeeded in garnering his attention. “Hey- What order those guys comin’ around? Fourteen needs a lift.”

“Luck of the draw, sonny,” answered a clone to their side. CT-6114 leaned upon him in full, still struggling to find balance.

Snap disagreed. “Well I’ll be damned if the rest’v us have to sit here getting weighed down by _these two_ pieces of luggage. Gadget, get over here.”

Perhaps interrupted from his attempt to smack the comm in his helmet back into function, one highly accessorized clone weaved his way through the pack. “Ugh…” he answered, more with his presence than words.

“Hold this.”

Snap extended his arms, Ringer swiveling his head back and forth in concern, then dropped him at poor Gadget’s feet.

“Wh- AGH!” Gadget yelped. Unprepared though he was, he did manage to bear Ringer’s weight. His screeching comm continued to pester his ears all the while, making this an altogether unpleasant experience. _“Sir!”_

“You’re the only guy ‘sides the kids who still calls me that, tech. Stop.” He dialed the comm on his wrist. “Mackenzie! Got a couple’a warm bodies over here for your sled. Coordinates one-five-oh dash six-two-nine. Inbound.”

A second of silence, followed by Mackenzie’s harried tone.

“Ach- Yeah? You and every other one’a these miserable _pods._ Get in line, Snap.”

Ringer decided he liked this Mackenzie then, if for no other reason than his distaste for Snap.

An evil grin blossomed under Snap’s helmet. Any clone who’d spent enough years around Obi-Wan had learned a thing or two about words. “No can do, sir, better pick up these greenhorns ‘fore I chuck ‘em out as laser bait. We both know I will.”

“Don’t you _dare-”_ Ringer started, but was cut off by Snap’s comm:

“This kriffing- You will _not!_ That is an order!” threatened Mackenzie, though the fact that it came as a threat meant that Snap already won. _“Dammit,_ let me get this blasted piece’a metal turned around, sadistic bastard…”

It occurred then to CT-6114 that, despite his more disagreeable traits, Snap was a rather caring person.


	9. Chapter 9

Mum wandered the desolate triage area with a limp to his step. Every once in a while, the potent vibrations of the aerial engagement outside would throw him off-balance, but he was quietly proud that he never once fell off his feet. Rows upon rows of dirty white armor drained in through his view. Some drenched in blood, but most of them clean. Most of them 352nd. Just a few yellow-striped, and none at all with the slash on the chest. It was his idea, actually, that the five of them from the 493rd should mark themselves as unique. They’d been through three different battalions already since their first mission today, so Mum sort of felt that they didn’t belong to anyone but themselves. Staring down at a crowd of unfamiliars, he was glad that they did. No way would they regroup after this, unless-

Mum tripped to a stop. For as many clones had been packed into this room, it all zeroed in to a point. Nestled in with maybe a hundred other men, there was the mark sticking right out among them. The slash. The lack of paint. Mum blinked. The way the man’s hair was cropped, the cleanliness of his face… He knew then and there. That was CT-6952.

His hands were folded, just over his gut.

With that sort of peaceful look on his face.

And four separate blaster holes to the chest.

He didn’t move.

He didn’t breathe.

The uneven ground rustled under Mum as he shifted, carefully as his broken body would allow, eventually lowering himself into a sitting position upon a sandy layer of debris. It puffed a grey ring around his damaged armor. For a long while there, he simply stared. Blank, unchanging, and far away into the emptiness of CT-6952’s face, knowing there was no one inside. Mum reached, for only a moment, then squeezed his hands back together. Such a strange thought. It wasn’t too long ago he was pulling this man out of the snow: one time this morning, and a second time this afternoon. Each iteration, Mum was mindful to make sure that none of it stuck. Cold armor was a nuisance to walk in, but… It all seemed so trivial now. Not just the snow, but everything else, too. All that effort they spent to get to this point—was it worth it in the end? Was it worth it to CT-6952?

Even if it wasn’t, what choice did they have? Dying like this was their birthright. Slowly, Mum dragged a finger through the grit by his feet. He hadn’t thought much about choice before now. A clone’s life was the life he was given, and be it genetically or culturally encoded, he didn’t much care. It was all pre-programmed, for him, and any result was acceptable because his purpose was already filled. But seeing CT-6952 lying still, with so many choices denied to him, he began to wonder.

“…Hey there, Nine fifty-two.”

By habit alone, his voice came to bear when his thoughts were too crowded.

“I’m ah… I’m sorry we didn’t get you a name.”

He rolled a pinch of sand between his thumb and forefinger.

“Prob’ly shoulda thought of that when we were gettin’ ready this afternoon.”

The commotion in the room folded over itself, fading into a homogenous buzz of white noise with the occasional tremor disturbing the ground. All that remained clear was CT-6952, and the words Mum couldn’t properly say.

“I might be, uh, the only one left, y’know. Out of us… Five.” The conclusion left his lips before his brain could process its meaning. Its math. They were no longer five. With that dark, oppressive thought ballooning inside of him, he quickly shifted focus back to his mate, something tangible and visible that would smother the dreadful realization of his own isolation. “A-anyway,” he stuttered out, “Is it… Is it okay if-” His helmet felt more cramped than ever. “-I give you one now? A real name?”

Against his best efforts, he felt his composure slipping. Warnings be damned, he reached up with both hands and lifted his helmet off. The cool air rushed up to his face. It hurt for a moment, more in his chest than anywhere else, but after a few, shallow breaths, the pressure equalized without issue and he felt his head clearing. The dusty environment didn’t change. Still, it felt somehow more real without a shield in the way. Placing the helmet into his lap, Mum folded his arms overtop of it.

 _“Whew!_ That’s better.” He forged a small smile. CT-6952 didn’t react. “So uh, I don’t actually have a good name lined up for you. Ha, never named anyone before, y’know? I get the feeling it’s usually the kind of thing that happens in passing, but what do _I_ know?”

He dug a hand into the loose debris by his knees, letting it pour out into a pile. Again and again, the action meant nothing. Mum didn’t know what to say. While brothers more died around him and more were prevented, he watched the pile of sand grow ever taller. _A name for Nine-fifty two. I can do that much,_ he prodded himself. But for as hard as he tried, his mind just went blank.

\- - -

When the speeder arrived beside Snap, it swerved into position without slowing down. Mackenzie vaulted from the driver’s seat in the middle of its arc, diving through tides of snow that his craft was kicking up as it came to rest nearby Snap and his squad. He rolled to the ground with ease and agility at the ready to move.

“Injured only,” he ordered succinctly. His eyes scanned the group with all the practiced precision of a long-time 212th medic, homing in on Gadget carrying Ringer. “Load ‘em up fast.”

Already eight clones were lying motionless in his care. As Snap catapulted CT-6114 into the speeder against his will, Mackenzie assisted Gadget in maneuvering Ringer more gently.

But the cruiser stalking above them would not wait, no matter how efficiently they moved. Perhaps noticing the strategy these soldiers employed—relocating their entire unit piecewise to the city beyond—the droids locked on to Mackenzie’s speeder. From high above, pixelated edges of targeting apparatus centered around their small group. It was only his unwieldy driving and drifted entry that spared them from total decimation; the cannon obliterated all sound in the area. Just like before, a staggering colossus of plasma blew through their immediate view. Thermal control units in every clones’ armor alarmed at the sudden change. Where the city once was, hazy and obscure through the snowstorm along the horizon, only oppressive red heat saturated the path ahead. Everyone ducked out of instinct. Displaced fragments of bedrock flew over their heads once the cold, upper layers of earth were melted away. They all soon recovered to the deaf and partially blind sight of Mackenzie, who motioned voicelessly, yet sternly, between the burnt speeder and field. Before anyone could respond, however, he was already gone.

CT-6114 didn’t remember much of the trip past that point. It was all he could do to hang tight against whichever thing he could grip—be it the edge of the speeder (still radiating heat from the enemy cruiser’s nearby shot), or some unknown brother’s limb. The perilous scenery rushed by in an innumerable series of flashes. In the span of some seconds, he saw brothers in yellow roll away from that same, wrathful beam, saw one group of them fire ascension cables onto the cruiser, saw droid-operated missile platforms crashing headlong in front of him, and finally, saw the grain of the speeder floor as his driver swerved to avoid them. He was alive, of that much he was sure, but his hearing was so damaged that he failed to comprehend the impact between his head and the ground. His whole body buzzed. When he finally hauled himself back to an upright position, their speeder jolted violently with a viewport-shattering _crunch_. CT-6114 ducked behind the rear seatbacks just in time to avoid being showered in shards of transparisteel. Mackenzie was not so lucky. Gingerly, CT-6114 peered above the sliced and blackened back row of seats, where ribbons of fluttering upholstery pattered against his view. Swatting them back, he watched Mackenzie at the helm, unceremoniously stuffing one Jedi cloak into the footspace of the speeder while still attempting to drive. Glittering shards were embedded inside his armor. He didn’t seem to mind as he plucked one that stabbed in right over his eye.

“Cody,” he repeated over and over to his malfunctioning comm, “I just hit the General. Came outta nowhere, I swear. He’s probably fine, just letting you know to go pick ‘im up ‘fore he gets buried in snow.”

Perpetual static obliterated the response. That likely had something to do with the unending array of explosions resounding behind them, CT-6114 guessed, but after that point it felt like the timespan of a blink before he arrived inside city limits.

Or maybe his consciousness was just giving out. He felt light as a feather inside Mackenzie’s glass-riddled arms. The dry crunch of dead grass heralded his arrival there, drumming along with the jaunty rhythm of heavy boots across barren land. One blurry recollection later, he found himself shuttled into a rickety room, settled brusquely into the chalky debris, crowded alongside a row of injured clones like himself. He lost track of Ringer. He lost track of himself. The ground rumbled beneath him, but all he could decipher was the swirling cyclone of plastoid white. Vignettes of reality floated across his transient awareness. Chaos, mostly, interspersed with visions of blood, but at one point interrupted, offering a clear vision of light where two figures stood indomitable.

The walls surrounding them trembled with a clear threat to fall. Certain sections actually _did,_ alongside large segments of ceiling, but CT-6114 witnessed them freeze in midair at the command of the right side figure, leaning heavily over the side of a clone.

“This building’s on its way out, sir. We need a solution _now,”_ he advised. Somehow unperturbed by the deteriorating environment, Cody held his superior by an arm over his shoulders. Although, by the looks of his armor—some parts of it cracked around dents the size of CT-6114’s fist—he was _held_ as much as he was _holding._

The battered Jedi draped over him dropped the ceiling somewhere out of CT-6114’s field of view. Then, after a while, he raised his sagging head. “Yes-” he agreed with a cough, “-I know.” And then, turning fast to the side, became deathly still. “The squadron is here.”

Trailing the last of his words, a salvo of cannons announced the arrival of ten V-19 fighters with a united, high-pitched squeal that cut through the drone of the encroaching Separatist cruiser’s engine. Stifled growls of thunder filtered in through the building in response.

Obi-Wan shrugged off the arms bracing him in a huff of relief. Similarly, Cody dismissed the hands helping him walk, wobbling about uncharacteristically as the two rediscovered their abilities to stand. As they did, either man’s arms were positioned to catch and be caught in the event either failed. At the very instant they were sure of themselves, they went straight to work.

 _“Mackenzie,”_ Cody demanded harshly, “Sitrep. I need these men ready for evac. That means _now.”_

Mackenzie gave the Commander a glance to acknowledge, but was otherwise busy stemming the flow of blood from another clone’s neck. In that time, it didn’t escape his notice that the left side of Cody’s chestplate was fractured and impacted into his skin. In most cases he’d have said something severe and required examination, but given that Cody was both walking, talking, and deprived of sleep to a degree that rendered him physically dangerous to others, Mackenzie decided then that compliance was currently his wisest course of action.

As he began to summarize and quantify the mercy operation, Obi-Wan butted in from afar. He shouted overtop of the increasingly crowded, antiseptic-scented ruckus going on inside, as well as the cacophony of turbolasers shaking the building from outside.

“Oh Cody, will you please remember to signal the transports?” he requested, carefully stepping over troopers on his way to the other side of the room.

“Called in the Acclamator, sir, they’ll pick us up soon,” Cody yelled back.

Obi-Wan stopped. Hopping a step to turn himself back without stepping on someone’s arm, he placed his hands on his hips. “The _Acclamator?!_ Cody, when I asked for evacuation I was expecting a ship used for _evac,_ not assault!”

Cody didn’t even move. He kept his gaze fixed on Mackenzie, regarding Obi-Wan as no more than a distraction, bidding his medic to carry on with his report. “You’ll just have to live with it, sir,” he dismissed, “We’ve been playing their game since last morning. Heavy assault craft will scare the tinnies off our tails once and for all. We're going _home_.”

He didn’t get to see Obi-Wan’s overbearing frown. Sensing quite easily that his Commander wasn’t about to entertain their disagreement any time soon, Obi-Wan swept a hand through the air and gave up. “Fine! We’ll do it your way. Just don’t come crying to me when the enemy’s figured out the composition of our suborbital naval array.”

With that as his final word, he found what the Force was pulling him toward. Here in this stained, ramshackle corner, the suffering shape of Rog-Patil was surrounded by two worrisome clones. His three-fingered hands clenched in agony over the myriad blaster wounds dotting his torso. Patches of bacta were spread out extensively over his body, but they even they could not conceal the withering pain in the Force. He writhed as his nerves spun between healing and decimation. His teeth grit together and chipped, spared only in those instants when he let loose to scream. The clones could do nothing more. Stopping in full before this gash in the Force, Obi-Wan felt the knight’s signature dart back and forth. In and out of existence, the life within him dimming and flaring again, unable to straddle both sides. His presence reeked of death. His place in the Force assaulted Obi-Wan with cries of regret. Even raised as a Jedi, Rog-Patil was not immune from these feelings—the desperation of a man unwilling to die. Carefully, Obi-Wan rested his fingertips upon Peeler’s shoulder. The stillness in his otherwise ragged form, or maybe the steel in his eyes, told Peeler to leave. Signaling Brass to go with him, the two nodded compliance, leaving the Jedi alone.

New torrents of cannon fire ravaged the courtyard outside. Obi-Wan sat on his knees. There would be some time before anyone trapped here could do anything more, so while the grasses caught fire and the windows collapsed, he found Rog-Patil in the Force. Drowning. Afraid. And most keenly, overwhelmed with guilt. It was a struggle at this point for Obi-Wan to bear a deep breath without coughing, but with discipline he did, diffusing out from himself and into the throes of the Force. The rest of their refuge was null. Rog-Patil’s fear was exposed. It consumed his presence as tides of agony crashed against Obi-Wan without stop, hardly responding to the growing vicinity of calm he projected. Patiently, Obi-Wan suffered them all. Soaking and accepting for time immeasurable, he felt the fear melt away. Beneath its more violent form, it shielded a dreadful sadness. A feeling of failure. The desire to impress. An obsession to win, a meticulousness born out of fear, leading to a refusal to change, and regret resulting.

Before he knew it, there was a hand on his wrist. Obi-Wan opened his eyes to see Rog-Patil staring back from below, clearly conscious, though faded far from his usual form.

“Master… Kenobi,” he stated, rather than asked. The shame in his voice matched the flux in the Force.

Obi-Wan did not speak, at first, moving his hands to better cradle the one that Rog-Patil clamped onto his arm. When he did speak, he did so softly—deliberately, to keep still the serenity he’d made. “Peace now, young one. Do not fight against the will of the Force.”

Rog-Patil wavered, sinking into his guilt. He looked somewhere far. “I’m sorry, Master,” he addressed formally. “I was… Selfish. I was arrogant. I- I thought that, if I could just plan for everything… But instead I’ve put this burden on you. I only wanted…” _To impress the Council. To prove my own worth._ The rest was plain in the Force. “…My actions are,” he hesitated, curling slightly away, “Unforgivable.”

“Forgiven,” corrected Obi-Wan, eliciting a glimmer of hope with his placid grin. “Insofar as my little part is concerned. The universe holds no power to measure one’s error. You alone bear that responsibility. Now, in time you shall mourn and reflect, but the situation now demands that you rest.” He returned Rog-Patil’s hand to his chest. “Your condition is rather serious, I’m afraid. I will do what I can, but-”

Just as Obi-Wan held his palms over Rog-Patil’s wounds, a thunderous shearing of duracrete rent through the facility. Rocks, dust, and bits of foundation from their building’s upper floors began pouring down. Visibility declined rapidly. Support beams snapped from above and smashed into the ground. Brass and his patient would have been killed then and there, but with instantaneous reflexes, fueled by the day’s unending combat, Cody’s ears picked up on the overhead girders giving way and he launched into action. Brass was thoroughly winded—yet gratefully alive—after being pile-driven into the ground by his Commander.

“All units, _evacuate!”_ Scrambling up to his feet, Cody wasted no time in sending the order.

Even their shoddy medical refuge was fair game to the droids. With no one left in the field, the Separatist cruiser and its remaining HMP took to tracking the speeders all the way to the ruins. The first spray of shots was untargeted while they still had no indication of the clones’ whereabouts. But upon locating the two speeders outside, it was a simple matter of decimating the closest structure nearby. Magnificent plumes of ash and glass filled the air. The top six floors rained down in dense fragments onto the delicate array of leafless trees and abandoned streetways. Every clone in the building’s ground floor was forcibly herded outside in a desperate rush, running headlong into the predatorial sights of the circling HMP. Red orbs of plasma carved into the ground where they stood. Thrown back by the impacts, they hugged the shambling walls with their patients, who were too weak to move, tip-toeing death by either building debris or enemy fire.


	10. Chapter 10

Obi-Wan stumbled into to the frigid moonlight outdoors, Rog-Patil swinging loose in his arms. The cold wind stung through his fluttering robes.

High and above the tumultuous scene of clones darting past, the light cruiser edged across clouds of debris and into his view. Its silvery hull glided effortlessly among the skyscrapers’ helms as pockets of red flooded out from its guns. While most of its arsenal was employed to deter the rocketing swarm that was Mesa Squadron, one functioning turbolaser awaited the dust to clear down below. Its roving scopes monitored the dilapidated streets with leisure as its HMP pawn dove into the fray again and again, keeping its targets corralled with sequential waves of suppressive fire. That was it. This was their plan. To chase the 212th down to the last of their wits in a war of attrition, then herd them into one place where the big guns would shoot.

 _As tactless as ever,_ Obi-Wan groaned to himself. Scattering bolts ate away their escape every time the HMP swung around. All the while, mists full of shrapnel whaled at his men from behind. It would be death either way, whether they ran from their crumbling shelter or not, and Obi-Wan needed a new plan five minutes ago. Kneeling in place, he narrowed his sight. The murk in the air made it too hard to see. The Force was polluted as well, with its dense fear and pain, altogether dulling his ability to formulate some way to counter this trap without exposing their casualties. It was times like these when he’d often elect to resolve matters personally, but to abandon everyone now would strip them of their last line of defense. Obi-Wan understood very well his worth as a shield. Still, without a way out, even he would not be enough.

Curling himself over the knight as a falling brick struck his back, Obi-Wan flicked his gaze left. The shambling gate to their refuge was just about gone. Before it collapsed entirely, however, the dusty silhouette of Cody could just be made out, staggering forth through the fog with a hitch to his step. In one hand, he carried the tails of two missiles, dragging their heads on the ground through the dirt. In the other, he supported the unwieldy shape of a launcher, bouncing up and down on his shoulder. No other clones left the door after him—or at least, no one _could,_ as the entrance promptly cracked and caved in on itself. Cody didn’t look back. He was busied with the indelicate process of missile loading once he arrived at a moderately defensible spot near what might have recently served as a wall, and Obi-Wan couldn’t help but crack a smile while watching him work. Were the situation less serious, he might even have laughed. _So much for strategy._ Cody always knew the right time to take the simplest approach.

"Fan out!” Obi-Wan ordered in response.

It wasn’t the kind of order that anyone _wanted_ to hear through their comm, per se, now that they’d all seen the droid fighter fly around at least a few times. But aside from its having come from the High General himself, everyone knew that they wouldn’t be ordered to run to their deaths. The legendary success of the 212th was founded on faith, and so while the directive seemed counterintuitive, nobody stopped to complain. Like Obi-Wan sprinting ahead, they nodded to one another, pushing away from the wall, galloping straight toward the steaming trenches bored into the road by the HMP’s guns. The ground was still warm.

Payloads of plasma gnawed into their unstable path, falling alongside fragments of architecture and soft flakes of snow. Soot burst in columns out from the road as they ran. The experience was somewhat more livable out in the field, but here in the city, everything was crowded and dark, affording fewer routes to dodge and more shadows to get lost in. Fortunately, the bombardment didn’t last long. With the HMP tripped on high alert, it swerved to position not far from the clones, hovering stationary to achieve better aim. Cody muttered his thanks. Tracking the ship through a crosshair peeking out from his mound of debris, he squeezed the trigger at last, loosing a deep, weighty _boom_ that preceded the bulging explosion of the HMP’s main reactors. For a moment then, the city square was alight with blue and orange flames.

Trails of smoke streamed off its large hull as the craft spiraled down. It landed with the most powerful quake yet, smashing streetlamps into the grass, knocking clones off their feet, heaving a tidal wave of earth in its wake. Everyone was thus thoroughly showered when they finally found safety inside the trenches, whose molten edges still glowed where the enemy formed them just minutes ago.

Ghost slid to a stop almost two meters down. It was only him sitting here in this trench, though on second glance, he found that his trench was more of a hole—there was just room for one. Most pits were haphazardly connected as a result of the many rounds that the HMP made, shooting into the same lines again and again to keep the 212th confined, but as it turned out, Ghost’s luck landed him in the one that was solitary.

-Or so he thought, until the butt of a rifle rammed in through one side, punching a window into the trench just next door. A yellow-rimmed visor took its place shortly.

“Look who we have here,” called in the intruder.

Ghost was still brushing dirt from his helmet when he recognized the coloration.

“Hey, Switch,” he greeted half-heartedly. “Was that really necessary?”

In lieu of answering, Switch bobbed around a ways, trying to see into the other trench more clearly. “Negative sir, it’s just Ghost,” he reported then, suddenly turning back to someone who Ghost couldn’t see.

But as far as Ghost was concerned, it was none of his business. He followed his instinct to keep watch. After digging a few shallow footholds into the wall, he climbed to the point where he could just barely see over the edge. Green-tinted night vision showed a disappointingly limited range over the urban terrain. Most of it was muffled with dust, or suffered interference from the ongoing flashes of Mesa Squadron’s naval engagement. The high-contrast flames flowing up from the downed HMP didn’t improve the view, either, causing a great source of glare that miscalibrated everything else. In spite of these obstacles, one small event caught the hook of Ghost’s keenly trained eyes. With a few small adjustments, he tracked his targets to perfection where they moved through the murk: a group of B1s folding out from a pod.

“…Of course,” he griped to himself. Scrolling his visor back to its normal display, he unclipped the sniper rifle from his back and prepared to shoot.

“More guests for the party?”

Ghost startled so badly that he nearly fell from his perch.

At some point, Switch must have reached the upper edge of his neighboring trench, because he was now leaning over it next to Ghost, propping his chin in one hand. Disregarding his brother’s apparent teleportation, Ghost regained his balance and positioned the forestock of his blaster against the ledge.

“Yeah. Eight o’ clock by that sign over there. Bad news if the twigs get too close.”

“You can say that again,” agreed Switch. He didn’t bother confirming the target—few others in their battalion were as accomplished of snipers as Ghost. Twisting back to look down at his trenchmates, he relayed the news. “Got a few pop tarts makin’ a mess out there, sir. Hey Tongs, pass me the longboat.”

Ringer, who was squashed most uncomfortably between a clone on each side, could only guess about what either of those terms referred to. His suspicions were confirmed about the ‘longboat’ when one sniper rifle bumped his helmet on its way being handed up to Switch, but ‘pop tart’ was certainly something more troublesome than just a few droids.

“Agh, really? Time to go, men. It’s that kind of day,” ordered a lieutenant whose name Ringer hadn’t yet learned. The officer then tried to stand, but crowded with this many men in these uneven pits, he sent an unintentional knee flying into another clone’s face. “Ooh. Sorry BJ. Switch, broadcast that out.”

“I’m on it,” said Switch, still adjusting his scope. “Hey BJ. Broadcast that out.” 

BJ, who now had a very unimpressive story behind his cracked visor, had to restrain himself from breaking Switch’s fragile footholds while re-channeling his comm as ordered.

The first shot was sent via Ghost. One hole to the battery pack, and his target went down. Switch wasn’t far off, taking the next B1’s legs once he traced Ghost’s trajectory. But no matter how clean their shots might have been, it was impossible to avoid the undesired repercussion: the rest of the droids now knew where to go. As the other clones filed out of the trench and into more mobile stations, the two snipers stayed back to thin the enemy ranks for as long as they could.

“Wanna race?” challenged Switch. The game was offered in the pretense of sport, but Ghost understood what he really meant. If they didn’t work fast, these trenches would become their graves.

“That sounds fun an’ all,” he granted, not looking away from his sights, “But I’d prefer you play scout so I can keep playing archer. All right?” He took his next shot.

It was a good plan. The HMP had ejected its battle droid pods to places unknown in this town, so it remained possible they could meet resistance from any angle. Two snipers facing the same direction _was_ quite a risk, but it was also quite obvious from his suggestion that Ghost was a sniper, and had never been anything else.

Knowing this, Switch lowered his sights. “That’s the trouble with specialists,” he teased with a grin. Ghost’s immaculate focus didn’t allow him to extract any meaning from Switch’s strange compliment. Instead, he took his third shot, a B1’s cranial processor destroyed in one go. The hiss of a gas cartridge caught his ear after that, followed by the sound of it dropping into the gravel within reach. A donation. More ammunition. But why?

Finally breaking aim, Ghost glanced from his scope just in time to see Switch vaulting out from the trench.

“What- Hey! Get _down!_ You’ll be spotted!” he implored, but Switch twirled his pistols upright and refused.

“You wanted a scout, eh? This is for you, buddy. I’ll keep ‘em off your back.”

“I didn’t- Switch!”

But he was already gone. It only occurred to Ghost after the fact that one couldn’t rightly _be_ a great scout from a trench such as this, for its walls were too high and its footholds too thin. Without meaning to, he’d given Switch the most dangerous assignment possible in this setting. His glove met his face with a sigh. If they both didn’t die from this, Ghost would have a few things to say about Switch’s bad sense of humor once they were safe back at camp.

But to Switch’s credit, the brewing ground assault never came Ghost’s direction. Blue beams became more and more numerous with each passing exchange, firing out from behind city adornments as the company was alerted to the presence of droids. The trenches were emptied in time. The clones gained the advantage. Confrontation was unavoidable in the end, but owing to Cody, they didn’t have to wage it against a ship. And owing to Ghost, they were prepared. As the ancient city creaked and crumbled with the thickening volley cutting bright through the haze, the 212th’s final weapon arrived on the scene.

One monstrous _Acclamator-_ class assault ship interrupted the gallery of stars overlooking the mountains, casting its inky black shadow over the unbroken planes of snow.

Mesa Squadron was anticipating the reinforcement. The droids piloting the Separatist cruiser, however, were utterly shaken. Outclassed by leagues and layers above, the T-1 tactical droid at the bridge stuttered momentarily into an abrupt fit of _‘Does not compute’_ and _‘Terminal error,’_ while its operator B1s shrieked in colorful emulations of panic. Regaining composure and recalculating statistics, the T-1 commanded retreat. Little did it expect that its brief hesitation was all the clone squadron needed.

“Mesa Nine, going in for the kill,” notified the level-headed pilot named Brimstone, and as he pitched down, four pilots more dove into formation alongside him.

The smooth dome of the cruiser’s bridge erupted beyond recognition. The swelling explosions broke fuel lines and electrical pipes, catalyzing further damage to interior structures, creeping along this cascade of destruction until the reactors themselves were about to be caught.

This much, the clones could see from the ground. Even filtered through the musty environment, they craned their necks up to see the last, sweeping maneuver soaring over the skyline, and in the very deepest point of those five fighters’ arc, the darkness was lifted in one blinding burst. A unanimous uproar of cheers pierced the battlefield then, though they were close to inaudible over the ear-rending noise of the cruiser.

Batting a stray bolt from the field, Obi-Wan stopped in his tracks. There was joy in the Force—unmistakably so—but somewhere beneath all this muddling stir of emotion, there came the glint of a warning. Stronger, it grew, pulsing in time with his heart, until the feeling sharpened so glaringly to the exclusion of anything else. A blanket of peril dominated his every sense. Time seemed to stop as he grappled hold of this vision, willing it to direct his mind in the present, carefully tracing its source without being consumed.

And there in the clouds, as the cruiser plunged in its final struggle, Obi-Wan knew that the cannon would launch. Everyone was out in the open. There wouldn’t be time.

His lightsaber clattered to the ground without second thought. Just as he knew to coordinate the troops around Cody’s decision earlier, Obi-Wan trusted in Cody to do the same for him now.

His knees spread apart. He exhaled all breath, closing his eyes, fixing his mind to a singular focus upon the downed HMP fighter. The Force condensed quickly. It crystalized there upon the wrecked hull until it was no more than an extension of Obi-Wan’s will, and then, commanding its presence as part of himself, he struck.

Obi-Wan broke stance and stomped forth, raising both hands in the most crushing, most tearing and vindictive motion that several clones had ever witnessed him make. They knew that _something_ big was coming from that, but none could predict when the flaming shell of a ship lifted out from the lava-like crater it fell to, throwing boulders and shrapnel across the block. Gently, slowly, like some kind of otherworldly creature, it began to float over enemies and allies alike, dripping globes of molten metal as it drew ever closer. Its majestic journey came to rest hovering meters above Obi-Wan’s head.

And no sooner than it had arrived, its purpose was fulfilled. Larger and faster than any could hope to outrun, the cataclysmic red turbolaser unleashed upon the city square, at once filling the space with heat and the pungent odor of ash. It would have vaporized most of the field. But instead, its vast beam impacted the rear plate of the HMP, shielding the area from all but the resulting downpour of metal and sparks. The crushing intensity brought the smaller ship low. Under Cody’s orders, no doubt, clones were already beginning to dash under its shadow, dutifully seizing the opportunity that was created for them as they carried on toward the city’s outer limits and the runways beyond. Out there, the _Acclamator_ approached. A flock of LAATs left its cavernous docks to ferry the troops up into the ship. But while most men sped by to meet their salvation, a small squad of three stayed behind. Together, of their own volition, they stood firm under the waning height of their shield. If anyone was to be shot by a droid on his way out the city, they could at least ensure that it wouldn’t be Obi-Wan.

Stepping a pace closer to his General’s side, Snap kept his eyes glued to the field with his blaster drawn tight. This HMP wouldn’t last. It was boiling hot under here, and with its already-low height declining to the point that Snap had to crouch, the only question remained whether Obi-Wan would give out first. Another few clones darted past. He was throwing together some half-baked plan to get everyone out in the event they were crushed, when the last bunch of stragglers came limping on through.

Ringer stared in disbelief. Carted along at a sluggish pace, he passed under the dark underside of the failing droid fighter, catching glimpses of armor whenever the three bolder clones sent their headlamps astray. Shimmering veins of liquefied metal dripped down from above. He didn’t recognize Snap straightaway, although Snap recognized him, double-taking with some amount of amusement. Perhaps in the spirit of victory, or more likely to commemorate their odd chances of meeting like this, Snap tipped a salute as Ringer left the deep shade.

It was the last that he saw of him before all was suffused in a grand sheathe of flame. The light cruiser crashed just inside city limits. Its reactors exploded on contact, devouring the nearest half-klick in a vivid and brilliant bloom, razing anything within its reach. That included Ringer. It included Snap. Fiery rubble surged over their shield, severing the overstretched threads of Obi-Wan’s strained concentration, causing the whole structure to fragment and cave in ten pieces. It fell overtop them all—the three clones and the Jedi they vowed to protect—leaving nothing but a kindling hill of debris and a treacherous, flame-coated path for the incoming clones who poured out from the LAATs.


End file.
